How Blest I Am in This
by darkershade
Summary: Introducing Colonel and Mrs. Christopher Brandon. Sequel to "A Little Fall of Rain." Note: If you're expecting a proper Regency-era gentleman, a sweet and gentle wedding night, or anything even remotely resembling lying back and thinking of England...you've got the wrong Colonel.
1. The Luckiest

"My Mine of precious stones, My Empirie,

How blest am I in this discovering thee!

To enter in these bonds, is to be free;

Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be."

-From John Donne, "To His Mistress Going to Bed"

Chapter 1: "The Luckiest," by Ben Folds

Marianne rose early from bed. The sun was just peeking over the horizon. She sat in the windowsill of the guest bedroom, watching the day bloom into being. Her heart beat steadily in her chest. She felt a strange calm settle over her, and she smiled. She was getting married today. She was in love. By this time tomorrow...well, so many things had to happen between now and then.

It looked like it would be a cold day indeed, and the heavy clouds in the air threatened more snow. Marianne shivered, anticipating. She loved snow.

When the clock on the mantle read quarter to seven, she thought it an appropriate time to ring for Bess to bring her a cup of tea and get a bath ready. For a long while she lay in the great claw-footed tub in the quiet of the early morning, sipping from a tea cup perched on the ledge and reading from Brandon's favourite copy of Donne. He had been right yesterday-the horseback riding had made her sore, but not so sore that she regretted the outing, or that she felt she wouldn't be able to walk today. She set the book down and reached behind her back to massage it.

As she felt her hands working out the tension at the base of her spine, she glanced down at her bare breasts as they thrust forward. She eased both hands around her sides, gliding over her wide hips, touching the skin of her gently rounded midsection, and cupped her breasts in her hands. Would he...and what if…

Her mother had told her a little about the way it was when a man bedded his wife, the place between her thighs where he would enter her-the place she had always been forbidden to touch. She slowly eased a hand beneath the water and found her sex to be a confusing jumble of soft curly hair surrounding a puzzle of flesh, and wondered how anyone had ever figured these things out in the first place. Even so, the sensation she felt from her own brief exploration was...intriguing. But it was short-lived. At the sound of Bess knocking to offer her more hot water, she quickly sank back into the tub and picked up the book again.

Brandon rose early from bed. He had slept surprisingly well, considering how vivid his dreams had been. She had made love to him in his sleep, his beautiful bride, purring and writhing beneath him like a kitten with catnip. His cock, when he woke, was fully, achingly erect, and he decided the only cautious and responsible thing to do was to stroke himself to climax so he didn't scandalize the whole wedding party when his arousal, sensitive from lack of attention, emerged later as an uninvited guest to his trousers. Marrying a nineteen-year-old must be turning him into one as well, he reflected afterwards.

Once he was up in earnest, he rang for his manservant to bring him tea and draw a bath up for him, and as he undressed he looked at his scars. His body bore a few healed-over wounds from various small accidents he'd accumulated over the years, from his rough-and-tumble childhood romping around the grounds of Delaford, to his days in the military, to his life as a sometime-avid sportsman now. His skin was a map of his history, and it was a long and sometimes painful one. The two most prominent scars, the wound between his shoulder and his heart, and the more recent scar on his upper thigh from Musel's knife the day he'd dueled with Willoughby, stood out like capital cities on the map-the first, a darkish brown landmark of an old world wherein thoughts of Eliza had dominated his mind and made him act rashly and run away from his home to a faraway land; and the second, a shining pink metropolis in the new world of his current love, a love that had given him purpose, steadied his hand in crises, and shown him, finally, hope at the end of a long night.

What would she think of these scars? Of what they represented in his life? Would she run from them, or embrace them?

She had said in her letter last night that she loved him. What had he done to earn this? What could he do to keep it?

He picked up the teacup and set it on the windowsill where he could reach it from the tub, then stepped into the steaming water. He then sank down, grabbed his book, put on his spectacles, and tried to soak away his nervousness.

Marianne was the lone calm fixture among all the hustle and bustle around her. She was force-fed some toast and jam, then made to sit still while Mrs. Jennings directed Bess on the exact way her hair ought to be done up. Mrs. Dashwood, Margaret, and Elinor, all dressed and ready, then poked and prodded her into her wedding gown. Mrs. Middleton herself saw to a final alteration, the attachment of a piece of lace in the bodice while Marianne was wearing it, which required her to be completely still so she wouldn't get stabbed with the needle. She complied. Stockings and shoes were shoved on her feet, and she was packed into the carriage, surrounded by the warmth of her family, and driven to church.

Brandon had dressed alone, buttoning his coat and checking that all was correctly fastened, smoothing out the fabric of his breeches, and touching up the polish on his boots. Not bad. Not ideal, but...not bad. He wasn't as young as he'd been the first time he'd donned this coat, but then, he was more mature, wiser, more experienced. Maybe in Marianne's eyes, that would count for something.

He ran his hand through his hair and walked out of the dressing room, sweeping his eyes over his bedchamber. The next time he entered this room, he'd be a married man. Maybe she'd be with him. Maybe...this train of thought was not going to lead to the kind of thoughts he was physically capable of entertaining right now, so he pushed everything out of his mind except his list of things to do: Exit house. Enter carriage. Go to church. Try not to have a heart attack from nervousness. Marry Marianne.

In the carriage, John joined him. John too was wearing regimentals, although much more tightly-fitted. Married, settled life had been very good to John's waistline, and the coat buttons had been moved several inches over to accommodate it.

"Well," John said.

"Yes."

"Today's the day."

"Stating the obvious. Excellent."

"Calm down, man. She's all but yours."

"I know. Why do you think I'm so nervous?"

John patted him on the back, and they rode the rest of the way in silence, Brandon fiddling with a brass button on his coat.

They arrived at the church, where Edward was bustling about, reading the Book of Common Prayer out loud to practice his lines, looking more nervous than even Brandon. "Chris!" he shouted. "You've arrived! I hope I don't muck this up."

"Of course I've arrived."

"Did you think we'd go off gallivanting?" John laughed. "Am I to be the only sane, normal, calm person in the church today?"

"Chris, how are you doing?"

"Terrified."

"Why? It's plain to see she's smitten with you. You have nothing to fear."

But Brandon, who still had trouble believing that this exquisite woman could actually want him, could actually agree to spend her life with him, was unable to shake the fear that something would go wrong-that somehow this had all been a cruel jest-until, standing there at the altar next to John and Edward, the church packed full of his friends and neighbors, the organ playing a familiar strain, he saw _her_.

There he was, his eyes on her, she thought, as her appalling half-brother walked her down the aisle. She could see him clearly through the veil, standing there in his red coat, his boots glossy and black, his eyes big and full of wonder, hardly daring to hope. Her heart broke for him then. She knew deep down that he doubted himself. She knew that he felt he wasn't good enough, that he was too old. That he was unworthy. She intended to spend the rest of her life showing him how wrong he was. She smiled beneath her veil, assured of his love, of her own love for him, and of the certainty of their happiness.

Edward performed the ceremony flawlessly, while Marianne and Brandon held hands and looked at each other. Brandon's heart wouldn't stop racing. Soon Edward would ask her if she took him to be her husband, for all time, till death did them part, and Brandon had never felt so vulnerable. What if she suddenly said no?

When he heard her voice say, "I will," strong and confident, he let out an audible breath and closed his eyes for a moment.

When she heard him say, "I will," his voice breaking, she laughed, overcome with emotion, and closed her eyes for a moment.

When he lifted her veil and looked into her eyes, he saw that they were filled with tears. He brushed a thumb to wipe them away before he kissed her. It was only when his lips touched hers that he felt anything resembling calm. He found his rest, his relief, in her. His wife.

It was only when he touched her face with his gloved hand and bent down to find her lips with his own that the flutter of nervous joy began in earnest in her heart and belly.


	2. Wake Up

Chapter 2: "Wake Up," by Arcade Fire

They left the altar arm in arm, and exited the church into the cold winter air. The wedding party followed them out and everyone stood outside and cheered them into the carriage, where he handed her in before climbing up himself, and they made for the mansion for the wedding breakfast. For a moment as they sat side by side, Brandon just looked at her. She had done it. She had married him. She was his! He couldn't believe it. To look at her, to touch her, to hold her each day for the rest of his life-these had gone from impossibilities to likelihoods in a matter of two months.

She broke the spell by taking his dumbfounded head in her hands, pulling him down to her and kissing him, and it was definitely not the type of kiss she could have gotten away with in church. She took off her gloves so her bare hands could run through his hair, touch the skin of his face and neck, and press against the warmth of his chest, and he took off his own gloves so he could feel her bare hands in his. He turned in the seat so he could face her better and tugged at her back, her arms, her shoulders, anything to get her closer. She whimpered into his mouth when his hands found her hips, and he broke away, panting, touching his forehead to hers.

"Thank you," he said after he had caught his breath.

"For what?" she said, blinking.

"For marrying me."

She grinned. "Don't thank me yet. I may turn out to be a terrible wife."

He smiled back. "No, you won't." He gathered their gloves up in his lap and then leaned back in the seat, curling his arm around her so her head could rest under his chin. He held her left hand in his right.

"I meant it, you know. The letter."

"I'd hoped you did."

"I love you."

He paused for a minute, inhaled, exhaled, and she felt his heart skip. "I love you," he replied, shifting and kissing her forehead.

She rested against him for several beats. "I meant all of it."

"I'm glad," he replied shakily.

"Is that alright with you? Is it still something you want? To...to take me into...into your bed?"

"Marianne, I-I'm trying very hard not to think about...that...right now."

"Oh." She sounded dejected. "Sorry. Of course, whatever you feel is best-"

"No, no-my darling-no." He pulled away from her and looked her in the eye. "I want to-dear God, believe me, I want to. I just can't think about it because if I do, I won't make it through the wedding breakfast."

"Oh," she replied, blushing.

"I have guests to entertain. _We_ have guests to entertain. But I promise you, as soon as we've spent an appropriate amount of time going through the expected rigamarole...that is, if you're still of the same frame of mind…"

"Oh, I can assure you that I will be," she said huskily.

He swallowed. "This is exactly why I didn't want to think about it," he breathed, and then bent to kiss her again, his tongue brushing against hers powerfully, his hands clenching and unclenching with desire to touch more of her than just her face and hair. But he knew once he started down that path, it would be torturous to stop until things ran their natural course.

At last they rounded the corner and he broke apart from her, straightening his hair with his hands and offering her back her gloves. They made themselves presentable.

"There's your house, Mrs. Brandon," he said, gesturing to the mansion. "I hope you like it."

"I think I shall like it well enough, as long as the master of the house is a handsome and engaging sort of person."

"I have heard him to be quite dull and old, actually."

"I have heard him to be quite wonderful."

"I question the source of your information."

"Well, I am the source."

"Then you're mad, clearly," he grinned. She kissed his cheek, and he nuzzled her ear, and the carriage drew to a stop in front of the house.

It was a long afternoon, followed by an even longer evening. The wedding breakfast, as grand as what Brandon had ordered up for Elinor and Edward, was enjoyed by the whole family and didn't really end until four. After the large meal, in which (despite the amount of money it had probably cost) neither Marianne nor Brandon felt much like eating, they took visitors in the parlor. Practically all the farmers and their wives from across the estate, as well as the servants' families and many people from the village, stopped by to wish the couple joy; Marianne met more people than she could ever remember, and soon felt dizzy and overwhelmed. Brandon kept her steady, squeezing her hand whenever he noticed her eyes become confused-looking, and making it clear to her through their whispered discourse that she would soon learn everything she needed to learn. But she slowly began to realize in the course of their dealings how much work it was to be Colonel Brandon, master of Delaford, a seemingly different man from the man who politely demurred his way out of the limelight at London parties and Barton picnics, and a dramatically different man from the one who kissed her senseless in darkened stairways and behind the curtains of a carriage window. And she realized how good he was at each aspect of his life. He was like a fugue, each of his characteristics developing the same theme of Brandon-ness in a slightly different way, and the way he flawlessly navigated his way from point to counterpoint fascinated her.

As the hour for dinner time approached, Marianne grew a little more hungry, and drastically more nervous. Every move Christopher made was torture to her-the way he rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, the way his knees bounced slightly up and down as he conversed with someone in his chair, the way his lips pulled back over his teeth whenever he smiled. She wanted him alone. But she settled for a small helping of sliced beef and some potatoes.

A band was brought in; there was dancing, and Marianne danced with her husband. She also danced with Edward, and (unfortunately) with her brother John, and with Sir John. The Colonel danced with Lady Middleton, with Fanny (once, and it was unpleasant), and even took Elinor, Marianne, and Mrs. Dashwood for a turn on the floor. He danced nearly every dance. He was full up on energy, somehow. He couldn't sit still.

Finally, at around nine-thirty-all the guests who still remained being the sort who were seriously deep into their wine-it became Eliza's turn. Brandon spun her around, sneaking glances at his wife across the room (who was sneaking glances at him from where she stood smiling and talking with Edward and Elinor). Eventually they came to a stop and Eliza dragged him off the dance floor and into the stairwell down the hall.

"Colonel Brandon, I must give you something. It isn't much."

"Oh, Eliza, you didn't have-"

"Oh, yes I did. After everything you've done for me over the years...everything I have comes from you. You've been a father and a friend to me. I don't know what I would have done without you." She teared up.

"Darling girl." He accepted the small parcel she offered him, and opened it. It was a sampler, lines from one of his favourite Shakespeare poems ringed with blue and silver flowers unframed but delicately worked and elegant.

"It's for Marianne as much as for you. I'm happy with your choice, Colonel."

Brandon felt his own tears coming to the corners of his eyes. "That-that means so much to me, Eliza. You know how I-"

"I know she would have wanted you to be happy. I believe that she is smiling down on this today."

Brandon nodded, overcome. Eliza held him for a moment. "I love you. Thank you."

"I love you, as well."

"And I'm proud of you."

Eliza snorted.

"You're a fine young woman, and a fine mother."

"Yes, well, we'll see how all that goes." Eliza grinned. "Now, what are you still doing here?"

"What do you mean?"

"Isn't there a virgin in this house in urgent need of deflowering?"

Brandon's face erupted in shock and he stepped back. "Eliza!"

She arched an eyebrow. "I've seen the way she's been looking at you."

Brandon felt his face grow hot, and he laughed at her despite himself. "I should strike you for your impertinence."

"But you won't, because you'd never strike me. And also because I'm right. Now go and see to her. I'm off to the cottage."

"Good night, then."

"Good night." Eliza departed. Brandon stood in the darkened hallway for a minute, steeling himself to go find his wife. Suddenly, as if by magic, she appeared around a corner.

"Oh. Hello," she said. "I was looking for you."

"Hello."

"Present?"

"From Eliza."

"I'm overwhelmed with all these gifts. I don't know when I've felt so provided for. Where shall we put them all?"

"Yes. Good question."

"I suppose it is an astonishingly large house."

"It is probably big enough for us."

"I think so."

"Yes."

"Yes." They were silent. Marianne asked, "Did they move my things from the guest wing?"

"They should have. Everything should be...um…"

"In the family wing?"

"Next to your room?"

"I took the liberty of reminding Bess to…"

"So did I."

He swallowed.

She said, "Well, I'm thinking of turning in soon. It's been a long day. Should we-"

"Dear God, yes."

Her breath caught. "Oh."

"Do you want-how should we-"

"I don't know. I haven't ever-"

"It's been quite some time for me."

"I think it probably hasn't been nearly twenty years!"

"True." A beat. Two. "I've got to find John to tell him good night. Then I plan to retire to my chamber. In around ten minutes, I'll be there. I'll be there all night, so if you want-"

"I do want."

"Oh, God," he whispered. He took a deep breath. "You know where to find me. If you don't change your mind."

She reached out and caressed his cheek. Then she ascended the dark staircase.

He scoured the room looking for John, and found him in a corner engaging in a ribald army tale with Margaret, who was cackling loudly and holding a glass of-dear God, who'd given the child whiskey? "John. Favour."

"Anything. Anything, brother, name it."

"I need you to make sure the house isn't destroyed tonight."

"It won't be-where on earth are you going?"

He pulled John far enough away from Margaret that he was relatively sure she couldn't hear him. Then he said, "My wife is tired and would like to be escorted to her new chamber."

John raised an eyebrow. Brandon did the same. John grinned and Brandon, not able to help himself, grinned a little too. Running a hand through his hair, he started when Margaret thrust a glass under his nose. "You need this more than I do, brother," she said, waggling her eyebrows. "Drink up, and please try not to break her. I'd like to have a big sister still in the morning, even if she is a bit more wobbly than usual."

Brandon glanced down at the small quantity of amber-coloured liquid in the glass, shrugged his shoulders, and downed it. "Thanks, Captain." Then he handed her the glass back, ruffled her hair, shook John's hand, and escaped more or less surreptitiously into the darkened hallway, back to the stairwell, and up to paradise.

Note: Chapter 3 is written. It will be up in time for Valentine's Day, but...like...I need to recover from the process of writing it before I can proofread. It's intense.


	3. Two Weeks

Chapter 3: "Two Weeks," by FKA Twigs

Marianne stepped into the new blue room, where a fire had been lit. Marianne lit a candle and began searching through the cabinets and drawers for all the things her mother and sister had been working on so diligently. She reluctantly rang Bess (for even if she could get out of this dress herself, she wasn't sure her hands would stop shaking long enough not to rip it). The older woman promptly came in, smiled at her, and took the candle from her nervous grasp.

"Let me help you with your dress, ma'am."

Bess carefully helped her remove her wedding gown. Marianne's anxious bladder quickly directed her legs to the chamber pot behind a screen in the corner, and when she emerged, after taking a short minute to scrub herself frantically at the basin as she knew she had been perspiring all day, Bess helped her with her stays. Marianne, unbound, took off her shift and asked Bess to find her favourite ivory chemise, wherever it had been laid-but when she slipped it over her head, the sheer, almost transparent cotton, the delicate detail of lace at the bodice, and the additional lace at the hemline that fell just above her knees, seemed to her to be too revealing. How could she appear in front of the Colonel like this? The dignified, respectable gentleman would be scandalized, surely-she started stripping the garment over her head and asking Bess to help her find something more modest. The serving woman laughed at her. "Keep that one on, I'd say."

"In your professional opinion, Bess, do you think… do you think he'll think I'm… loose? If I wear this one?"

"In my professional opinion? I don't think he'll be doing much thinking at all if you wear that one."

"Oh." Marianne blushed. "So I should…"

"Wear that one. Don't worry, dear. You won't be wearing it long."

"Bess?"

"Hmm?" Bess answered, her mouth full of the pins from Marianne's elaborate hairstyle as she helped her free her red-brown curls.

"Do you think...will it hurt?"

"It may. Your mother told you it hurts?"

She nodded.

Bess sized her up, spat the pins into her hand, and put them on the vanity. "If he does it right, it might not hurt. Try to guide him into going slow, if you can."

Marianne blushed. "Thank you, Bess."

"He's been a good friend, a good master, to me, and to my husband for even longer. I think he'll be good to you."

"I know he will."

"I believe you are ready. Ring if you need me." And Bess stepped out into the hallway.

Marianne felt her breathing quicken and her pulse race. She eased open the door to the dressing room, where she saw her husband-her husband! hanging up his coat, his back turned to her. His boots were off, as were his stockings, and she saw them in a hastily discarded pile in the corner. She stepped into the room, strode over to him, and put a hand on the back of his waistcoat. He jumped. "Good God, woman!"

He turned.

"...Holy fuck," were the words that he said when he saw her.

There was no phrase in the entirety of the English language that could have articulated his emotions more clearly.

"Sorry," he said after a moment, rubbing his eyes and running a hand through his hair. "It's just...you look...dear heaven."

"Do I...do I please you?" she asked, her voice catching. "Or…"

"Oh, yes. Yes, you please me." And he caught her in his arms, his mouth finding hers in hungry desperation. His hands clasped her to him as he guided her backwards, roughly, forcefully, his arms cushioning the blow as he shoved her back against the wall and lowered his mouth to her neck. "God, yes. Oh, God, Marianne."

"Oh!" she exclaimed, as he began to tug at her hips. She felt something unknown as yet brush against her belly through his trousers, something her body recognized though her mind did not. She bucked her hips into his, grinding against him involuntarily.

"Mother of God," he gasped. He held onto her still but edged away ever so slightly. "We ought to… I should…" He couldn't finish a sentence. He barely had a coherent thought in his head. "Bed," he said. "If-if you want."

She nodded, wide-eyed. God, she thought, the power that his hands had on her. He wielded them once more to turn her around and point her body to the doorway into his chamber, running up and down the length of her sides and hips through the soft fabric as he did so and just barely brushing his fingertips against the undersides of her breasts. She gasped, which caused him to lose control momentarily again, thrusting his own hips against her so that he was pressed against the soft flesh of her backside.

She took his hands and brought them up, blushing to herself at her own boldness, and placed them over her breasts. His breath hot against her neck, he moaned gently as he ran his fingers across her nipples through the fabric and then gently squeezed, his hips still moving against her slowly but perceptibly. His teeth bit into her neck as he caressed her, tentatively at first, and then when she didn't protest, he dragged them across her skin, applied light suction with his mouth, lapped at her pinkened flesh with his tongue, and then nibbled again, covering her mostly-bare shoulders and the areas of her neck that he could reach from behind her with his hungry, eager kisses. She placed his hands over her own, encouraging him with a murmur of consent. From her breasts, their hands traveled together to her stomach, her hips, the fronts of her thighs, and back upward.

"Bed," he articulated gruffly, after his mouth and hands had explored a while. He backed away from her, placed a hand on the small of her back, and marched her forward into the bedroom. His own fireplace had been lit, and the room was aglow with a warm light. Their bodies cast shadows against the white walls. She turned around, put up her hands, and stopped him in his tracks.

"Wait."

He raised an eyebrow. "Please, God, don't tell me you've changed your mind."

She laughed, her joy suddenly bubbling up through the new sensations he was awakening in her. "Lord no. I-I want this. But…"

"But?"

"I don't know exactly what it is you want me to do. You'll have a lot of teaching to do."

He smiled down at her, that wry, self-deprecating smile, and said, "Marianne, as much as it is an embarrassment to myself to say this, I'm not sure you'll really need to do much of anything tonight. I'm...it's been a very long time for me. I don't think it's going to take much. God, even just looking at you in that...that thing you're wearing...oh, Christ, I can't control myself."

"Would it help if I...wasn't wearing it anymore?"

He laughed. "It depends on what problem you're trying to solve. Maybe leave it on for now so as not to tempt me into taking things so quickly that you're not fully ready."

"Well, alright, but…"

"Hmm?"

"Can I at least see you? Will you...um…remove…" Her heart thudded as she tried to articulate her desire.

"You want me to… to take off my clothes?"

She nodded, looking down, and the delicate pink shade of her cheeks when she avoided his gaze made his heart ache. "If you want to," she said.

"Would you… like to help me?"

"Oh!" She looked up at him. "I could-I don't know where to begin."

He led her to the chairs in front of the fireplace and sat down in his accustomed seat. He sat her down on the ottoman which he'd pulled directly in front of him, and placed her hands on the top button of his white waistcoat. As she struggled with shaky hands to unbutton him, he watched her with heavy-lidded eyes. Her concentration as she worked her fingers reminded him of the way she played-biting her lip and furrowing her brow-and he had to stop her and hold her hands against his chest and kiss her. "I love you," he said. "Whatever happens tonight, know that I-"

"I know. I love you, as well." She smiled shyly, and then went back to work. When the waistcoat was unbuttoned and he leaned forward to remove it, she loosened and removed his cravat, unbuttoned his braces at his hip bones (and even this efficient movement, so close to the part of him that was insisting on her notice, was enough to make him squirm and expel his breath suddenly). She pulled at his shirt then, white and billowy as she loosed it from where it was tucked into his breeches, and he raised his arms to allow her to raise it over his head, feeling the tug as she freed the cuffs from his wrists.

Oh, my, she thought, looking at the unexplored country of his exposed skin. The first thing she noticed was its colour, a shade or three darker than her own, and she placed her hand tentatively on his chest to compare in wonder the contrast. When she did so, she found that she liked the feel, the lean muscle that covered him, as well as the fine layer of soft brown hair and the small nipples that stood at attention in their exposure to the cool air. His body was so different from her own and she relished it, scooting forward in the ottoman and taking both hands now, running them up and down his chest, his abdomen, and along his bare arms. When she came to the scar on his chest, closely diagonal to his heart, she looked up. His eyes were closed, his face enraptured as she touched him. She felt powerful suddenly-how many times had he seemed, during this interlude, to be nearly unmade by her? And she was so thoroughly affected by him as well. A tingling sensation between her legs, where she knew he would somehow enter her later, convinced her to straddle him on the chair where he sat so she could splay her hands out on his chest.

From where she knelt, she could see his back, taut and strong, and noticed a small something, black, on his left shoulder blade. On further inspection it was a drawing in ink-no, a tattoo. Marianne had never seen one in person, and must have gasped, because he looked up at her sheepishly. She touched her fingers to it but couldn't really make out the shape from this angle.

"What is that?" she asked curiously.

"A major life decision I made when I was nineteen," he replied, his voice filled with humour. "Still think it was a wise idea to marry me today?"

"Yes." She tilted his head up so she could touch her lips to his.

He reached around and anchored her with his hands, gripping her hips and sliding further back, cupping her bottom through the fabric of her chemise. The sensation of his warm hands on her was breathtaking, but when his hands lowered to reach around the backs of her thighs and his fingertips grazed the soft flesh on the inner part of her legs, even through the cotton material, she felt her whole world change. A guttural sound welled up from somewhere at her core and emerged, causing her to nearly lose her balance.

"Does that feel good? When I touch you there?" he asked, his words a faint whisper.

"Mmm," was all she could reply. It had felt so good she'd wanted to cry.

She continued her exploration, and he did as well, hands brushing along her thighs through her clothing. Soon he needed more. He reached down to the lace of her short gown and placed his hands underneath, easing fingers delicately upward to touch for the first time the bare flesh of her legs. When he reached the tops of her thighs, inches away from her sex, he felt moisture accumulated. God, she was soaking wet, and he had barely even touched her. This would probably kill him. This woman would be the death of him. He tried to catch his breath, cock throbbing insistently from where it stood up against his breeches beneath her own hot, inviting opening.

He stood up slowly, breaking up the delightful attentions she was lavishing on him, and she slid back with her feet on the ground. He pushed her onto the ottoman. Then, because it was becoming agonizing to be bound up thus, he reached down and unbuttoned his breeches, removing them. She was eye level with his cock, and the gasp she took when she saw it caused him some concern that perhaps she was frightened, until he saw the look in her eyes, which was one of dawning realization rather than fear. "Oh," she said. "I think I understand now."

He pulled her up to her feet, sidestepping his clothing which lay in a puddle on the floor, and backed her up into the bookshelf that lined the wall next to his hearth. "What do you understand, exactly?" he breathed into her mouth as he kissed her again.

"How...this...works."

"Enlighten me. How do you think this works?"

"You will take, um… this," and she touched two small fingers to his member, and he buckled, thrusting forward against her, and then she drew her fingers up the length of him and stroked him once, and he almost lost it right then, "and enter me with it."

"Would you like me to do that, Marianne?" he asked hoarsely.

"Y-yes," she stammered,.

"You want me to fuck you?" he whispered.

She nodded, meeting his eyes bravely. He closed his eyes, committing this moment to memory, and taking her lips by storm again. Then he moaned into her mouth as she wrapped her hand around him, satisfying her curiosity as to what his member was and what it could do, but causing him to worry that he'd come in her hand in a matter of moments if she continued. He grabbed her wrist and eased it off him,

"Not yet, love. I want you to-" he stopped, swallowed, trying to control his breathing. "I want you to get some pleasure out of this experience too."

"I am!" she insisted, her green eyes looking up lovingly at him. "This is all so very good."

"Yes, but… there is more pleasure yet, if you will let me show you."

"More?"

He nodded. "If I can do this right. I've never… Marianne, I don't know if I'm any good at any of this. I've never…"

"Christopher-I thought you said you'd done this before, long ago."

"Oh, I have. But never with anyone...anyone who loved me. Anyone whom I loved. Anyone whom I trusted to be honest with me. I don't know if I can please you. Will you tell me if I do something you don't like?"

She nodded. "Should I also tell you if you do something I do like?"

He smiled hopefully. "I'd love it if you did." He took her small hand in his large one, and led her to the bed. Before he sat her down, he tugged the hem of her chemise up, asking her, "May I?" She nodded, raising her arms to allow him to unclothe her, the faintest of blushes touching her cheeks.

He took a long minute to survey her nude form. This was easily the best his eyes had ever had it. He nearly swooned looking at her creamy, full breasts, the sweetly rounded little tummy that led down to a triangle of reddish-brown curls, the luscious, mouth-wateringly curving thighs that he imagined would feel like heaven if she used them to wrap around his arse as he buried himself inside her... "Marianne, why...why are you with me?" he said in wonder.

"If you don't touch me or do something soon, I'll start to wonder," she said, half-laughing.

He nodded, and eased her down onto the bed so she sat at the foot, encouraging her to lie back. Then he joined her, carefully avoiding placing his body against the length of her for fear it would cause his arousal to begin acting of its own accord. He kissed her mouth, and she moaned, and then he propped himself on his left elbow, lowered his head, and took a nipple into his mouth. He suckled her gently, delicately, and she made that whimpering sound in the back of her throat that he was growing quite fond of. His other hand came up to caress her other breast, flicking her nipple in his fingers, tracing the underside with his thumbnail, and she thrust her hips up in response. He looked down and saw that her legs had splayed open and that her own hands were gripping the bedclothes. She let go with her right hand and started to edge it towards her sex, and Brandon raised his head up and watched her for a minute, saw the tentative way she touched herself, as if she had never known her body could produce such sensations. She probably didn't, he reflected. Most women today are told it is a grave sin to do what she seemed not to be able to help herself from doing. _I want to show her how good it can be to take pleasure in her body_ , he thought. _One day soon I want to watch her explore herself, but right now I want to be the one to make her come._

He dipped his hand down from where it lay on her breast and traced the curves of her belly, finally meeting her own fingers at the delta of her body, when she stopped him. "Oh, Christopher," she said, sounding distressed. "I'm-I'm sorry, I don't know why-"

"Do you want me to touch you here?"

"Yes, of course, but...I don't know why I am suddenly…"

"Damp?"

She nodded.

"It's good. It means that you're enjoying yourself."

"Well, I definitely am, at that," she said softly. "It's not...unpleasant?"

He shook his head, and then began to stroke her. He found the small bud among her folds relatively quickly, and her eyes, which had glided closed, shot open with a start.

"Shh," he said, "Let me." She gripped the bedsheets again and began to pant and whimper, her body unused to the sensations he was providing but liking it very much.

Eventually she felt pressure begin to build up in her lower abdomen. "Oh, dear-oh-"

"Are you alright, darling?"

"I think...something's happening to me." It was an entirely alien sensation, like being about to faint, but still being aware of what was going on around her, the feel of his hand on her, and then, his thumb still circling her bud, he slipped a finger inside her, and she found that the sensation intensified tenfold. "God, what are you doing to me?"

"Do you like it?" he croaked, his eyes never leaving her face, her body.

"I-oh, God, I-I can't-oh, Christ!" she cried out, the pressure unfurling within her like an explosion of heat and joy.

He watched her come, and with everything his own body felt right now-mostly an intense, concentrated desire to be in her-he couldn't help but feel a fierce pride that he had claimed her. It was he to whom she'd cleaved, he in whose bed she now lay, undone.

But he wasn't finished with her yet. His finger, which remained inside her, was soon joined with a second one, and as she recovered herself, her face in her hands to try to calm her breathing, she felt the added pressure inside her body. She felt he was readying her to accept his manhood, and she relaxed into the sensation, spreading her legs wider in anticipation of what was to come. But he didn't take her yet. Instead, his fingers staying exactly where they were, he eased himself up off the bed and knelt down in front of her. And he took her swollen little bud and lapped at it with his tongue, causing her to scream out incoherently. In a matter of a couple of minutes she broke apart again as he tasted her, drank her in, and even still he felt he could stay here forever, and nibbled at the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs as her shudders slowly subsided.

"Oh, God, Christopher," she said a minute later, raising herself up on her elbows and looking down at him, where he knelt contentedly worshipping her. "Please."

"Hmm?" he hummed into her skin.

"Please come back up here." He stood up and sat next to her on the bed.

"You didn't enjoy-"

"Isn't it your turn?" she interrupted, her eyes darkened with expectation.

"You know we don't have to-"

"Yes, we do," she said. "I want you to..to…"

His gaze intensified as he met hers. "What do you want me to do? Say it."

"Will you please...please enter me?" _Fuck me_ , she thought, though she was still too shy to use that word.

His eyes closed and he shivered. He asked, "Are you sure?"

She said, "Yes."

"I don't think we can turn back, afterwards."

"We've come too far to turn back now, anyway." She smiled, her whole face seeming relaxed, her eyes gleaming. He had done that to her, he realized. Now if only she knew what she did to him.

He eased her up further onto the bed, and he came to lay alongside her. He kissed her again, not thinking about where his mouth had been, but she didn't seem to mind and returned the kiss with all the love and vigor of a woman who was thoroughly besotted. Then he rose up above her, nudging her legs wide enough open that he could position himself between them. He used his hand to guide his cock to her entrance, and her nostrils flared. "I don't want to hurt you."

"It won't hurt long," she said, certain.

Slowly, gently, he felt her warmth envelop him as he glided inside of her. He met with no resistance, a sign that he hoped meant she had been ready for him. She might not even bleed. But he still needed to be careful, because his girth was being gripped tightly enough by her walls that he feared too much movement, too soon, would cause the sensitive tissue inside her to tear. Her sigh when he was in her fully, and the way her eyes never once left his face, caused a wave of emotion to overcome him. He lowered his head and touched his forehead to hers.

"How does it feel? Does it hurt too much?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"Can I move in you? I don't think it will be for very long," he said apologetically.

She nodded, running a hand through his hair.

He began to thrust gently, the pressure on him from her body's tightness already causing his breathing to hitch. She placed a kiss on his shoulder, his neck, and then reached up to take his head in her hands and bring his mouth to hers. He kissed her slowly, matching his rhythm, but when she raised a leg and wrapped it around his arse, pulling him in even deeper if possible, he lost all restraint. He broke their kiss and his movements grew faster, more erratic like his breathing, and finally, his face buried in the tangle of hair that spread out over the pillow, he released inside her with a strangled cry.

"Oh, Marianne," he whispered, as the world came back to him. He felt tears sting his eyes, and shuddered, holding back a sob. She made a sad little whimpering sound as he slid out of her and collapsed on his back next to her.

She said nothing at first, but rolled over onto her side and placed a hand on his chest to feel the beating of his heart slow down. "Did I disappoint you at all? After all the time you've loved me and waited for this? Did I do anything wrong?"

He laughed, taking her little hand in his. "No, love. I never dreamed that anything in my life could be that good."

"All of those things you did to me, and made me feel…"

"Do you regret it?"

She shook her head, placing a kiss on his shoulder. "It was… sublime."

"I quite agree." He smiled and turned to face her, head resting on his outstretched arm, hand tracing the curved outline of her hip, side, and leg as she watched his face. "You're so unbelievably beautiful."

She blushed. "Thank you." She looked him up and down and said, "I wish you knew the effect you have on me. You make me feel weak in the knees."

"Then it's a good thing you're lying down."

"Indeed," she giggled. His heart clenched to hear the sound, and to see her still here, tangible, solid.

This was real, they both came to understand as they talked, caressed, laughed, and murmured endearments to one another, drawing the covers over them after finding that all their hot effort earlier had caused them to forget how cold it was. Though Brandon felt sleepy for the first few minutes after he'd pulled himself out of his wife's body, he was all alertness now, his eyes and hands attempting to map her body out as they talked, memorize every inch of her. Soon, incredibly, driven mad by his touch, Marianne made signs of wanting her pleasure again, and Brandon obliged, dipping his fingers into her folds and stroking her until she moaned. Even more incredibly, her excitement caused his own to build up within him again, and he asked her-oh so hopefully-if she'd be alright if he entered her again. This time, she pulled him to her hungrily, and his member found its way inside her easily. He lasted much longer this time, her cries of anguished need washing over him like a gentle rain, and he angled her upright against the pillows so he could reach between their bodies and continue stroking her until she came violently, biting down on his bottom lip hard enough to cause him to cry out in a mixture of pain and pleasure, and yanking him down with her into the abyss of release.

This time he collapsed on top of her, and he stayed in her for a long time after, only pulling out when he felt himself starting to nod off to the double joys of afterglow and the way she scratched his back soothingly. He maneuvered her so that he was on his side behind her and she was in his arms, aligned with him. "Will you stay with me?" he asked, half-asleep. "Sleep here?"

She nodded. "But don't you want your own bed?"

"If you're not here when I wake up I will think I dreamed this."

She snuggled deeper in his arms. Soon they were both asleep.

[So, Happy Valentine's Day, guys and gals. Whew. This was fun. And hard. No pun-well, okay, pun intended.]


	4. Chateau Lobby 4

Chapter 4: "Chateau Lobby #4," by Father John Misty

Marianne woke in a strange but impossibly soft bed, feeling warm all over in the best way. She blinked her eyes open and saw her arm thrown over Brandon's bare back as he lay sprawled out on his stomach, his hair softly brushing against her face as he slept. She realized her right leg crossed over his body and was resting on his backside. Both of them were still nude. This realization caused her heart to start pounding. Her mind flashed back to all they had done last night, and she felt-probably scandalously-delicious. Nothing had ever prepared her for the way it would be with him, nothing could have. He had been so unexpected in every way-loving and thoughtful, yes, but also more passionate and sensual than she'd ever seen him. The expressions and sounds he'd made when she touched him, when he'd entered her… And the way her body reacted to him-she hoped, when he awoke, he didn't despair to remember how wanton she'd been.

She lifted her head up to survey him. Still, his skin hypnotized her-she had never seen anyone, save her sisters and baby William, so exposed, and when when she looked at the down-covered, here-and-there sun-worn or scarred, leathery expanse of him, her eyes couldn't get enough. She had a perfect viewpoint of his back from where she lay, and she (gently, so as not to wake him) ran a hand along his spine, and then drew circles on his flesh with exploring fingers. The small black tattoo she'd observed the night before, she now could see much more clearly. It was smaller than her balled-up fist and positioned right over bone. It appeared to be an outline of a ship, pointing in the direction of an eight-pointed star in the distance. She wondered what it meant, and why he'd chosen to affix it forever to his body. It must have hurt, but she got the sense that he was a man accustomed to some amount of pain. She placed a kiss there, and scattered a few soft kisses all over him. She glanced up at the clock in the corner- eight o'clock. They had slept for ages. She came back down, wrapping around him again, and burying her face in the distinctly Brandon-scented back of his neck.

He stirred, made a contented sigh, and rolled away onto his side to face her, his own eyes now blinking awake. The look in them of disbelief and old disappointment as they opened to see her there, watching him, turned into a smile of wonder.

"You're still here."

She smiled back. "So are you."

"Where else would I go?"

"It's your house. You could go anywhere."

"It's _your_ house. You could go anywhere, too," he reminded her, lifting his hand from under the covers to smooth down the tangled mass of curls on her head and stroke her cheek.

"Where else would I want to be?"

"My sentiments exactly." He rolled onto his back and pulled her to him so she lay in the hollow between his outstretched arm and his side, and she put her hand on his chest. "I love you."

"I love you." She repeated her ministrations from the night before, running her hand over his chest and memorizing its idiosyncrasies.

"Are you alright, by the way?" His face looked down at her, displaying concern. "Last night, when we...did I… erm…"

She grinned up at him, nodded her head. "Yes. Are you alright?"

She felt the chuckle form in his chest. "I've never been better, actually," he murmured, kissing her forehead.

She cuddled into his embrace, throwing a leg over his own-and then noticing, as she did so, that her knee brushed up against the part of him that had intrigued her most of all last night. She heard him whimper for a second as she did so.

"Do you-are you, um…" she asked, blushing as she fumbled for words. "What exactly is happening down there? With, um…"

"My-my cock?"

"Yes, that."

"Sorry." He shifted a little. "It's just morning. It happens."

"Every morning?"

"No, but...well, generally speaking, I don't wake up with a beautiful naked woman in bed next to me every morning. I'd like to, but…"

"So, does that mean you'd like to do what we did last night again?" she asked, breathlessly.

"Do you?" He turned to look into her eyes.

"I think… only if you want to."

"My sweet, wonderful Marianne. I always want to."

She raised up on her elbow. "Really?"

"Do you know how long I've been dreaming about getting you in my bed? An embarrassingly long time, that's how long."

"What did you do with me in these dreams, exactly?"

"Oh, all sorts of things," he purred.

"And this version of me in your dreams-was she very good at, erm...at giving you pleasure?"

"Not as good as _you_ are," he said honestly.

"Will you tell me something you wished for her-me-to do?"

"Well, there's always been a lot of this going on in these dreams," he offered, and raised up so he could meet her mouth for a long, slow kiss.

"And what else did dream-Marianne do?" she flirted a minute later, her lips puffy from his attentions.

He chuckled, tossed the bedclothes to the side, and rolled her over onto her back before pouncing on top of her with the full length of his body and nibbling on her ear. She squirmed-but not from pleasure; she squeal she made was one of discomfort. "Um...Christopher?"

He immediately rolled to the side and looked at her with a concerned face. "Did I hurt you?"

"No, it's just, I should...um…" She was mortified. "Can I have...a minute or two? I need to, um…go to my chamber for a minute."

"Marianne, did I do something wrong? I'm sorry-please tell me."

The look in his eyes, the pain returning to them like she'd seen there before she had become betrothed to him, before he'd gained a little taste of happiness in her arms to curb the misery of a life of loneliness, made her heart hurt. No, she thought, if I can help it, he'll never feel that kind of pain again. Cheeks pink, she said, "You've done nothing wrong. But I find that I have to...er...relieve myself. I'm sorry."

The light returned to his eyes. "That's all? Oh, darling. Why didn't you just say so?"

"I was embarrassed…"

"Because you're a human being? Go. I'll be here when you get back." He smiled at her, laughing softly. She reached out to squeeze his hand and gave him a sheepish look, and then searched around for something to cover up with so she could walk the short distance to her room without being fully nude. She grabbed the throw blanket at the foot of the bed first, then looked for the chemise from the night before and couldn't find where he had thrown it, crumpled and abandoned, in his eagerness to see her bare flesh. She felt his eyes on her as she searched.

"Marianne, what are you doing?"

"I'm looking for my chemise."

"You know, if you're worried about me seeing you naked, that ship has sailed."

"Yes, but I'd like to preserve a modicum of modesty, so you don't think I'm a wanton hussy who roams around naked all the time."

"I'd be perfectly alright with that," he said, and she looked back at where he sat on the bed, partially covered by a sheer bedsheet, his member tenting the fabric that covered it, his arms crossed behind his head, his eyes dark, lust-filled. She felt a hot stab of desire, and it made her shudder.

"Nevertheless. May I borrow your shirt?" She picked up the white garment where it lay by the fireplace where she'd left it. He nodded, and she engaged in a complicated dalliance with the shirt, which needed to go up and over outstretched arms, and the blanket, which needed to cover her otherwise-exposed bits and pieces in the meantime. Finally she had achieved victory and tossed the blanket to the side, and then scampered towards the door to the adjoining room. "Two minutes," she said, holding up two fingers to him before closing the door.

Brandon, heart racing, sunk back into his pillow for a moment, rubbing his face with his hands. _God damn. I didn't dream it. Christ, she's phenomenal_. His hands smelled like her. He rolled over to the next pillow and could smell her on it as well as he buried his face in it. He'd thought he'd never be more aroused than he'd been last night, not knowing how it would be to take her, to please her-and yet now that he had done so, the anticipation of _knowing_ how good she'd be this next time was causing him to be completely overcome with lust. _Calm down, man_ , he told himself, as he got up and found his own chamber pot, quickly dipped a towel into his basin to scrub away maybe some of the dried perspiration their bodies had generated the night before so she wouldn't run away from him in disgust, and had just enough time to toss another couple of logs into the dying fireplace when she emerged again from her room and saw him standing, still fully nude, replacing the poker and tongs back on the base.

"It's probably not a good idea to do that without trousers on, is it?" she asked, archly.

"I scoff at danger," he replied, repositioning the screen and turning to face her, only to find that she had slipped behind him and set her hands on his hips, placing kisses on his shoulders.

"What is this, anyway?" she asked him, pointing to his tattoo. "Is there some sort of story behind it? Does it mean something special?"

He quoted, "It is the star to every wandering bark."

"Shakespeare? Sonnet 116?"

"Yes."

She wrapped her arms back around him suddenly, and he felt her shiver behind him. "Does that mean something special to you?"

"I was...young. And still very...very much in love with Eliza, when I stumbled drunkenly into a very unsavory tattoo shop, much to my disgrace as an officer. I had to keep my shirt on the rest of my deployment for fear someone would see. And that's…" he trailed off.

"Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out…"

"Even to the edge of doom," he finished, eyes closing as she nuzzled the place where evidence of his old love had physically marked his body.

"I love you," she said, squeezing his waist gently.

"Oh, Marianne, I love you so," he whispered, feeling her hands caress his abdomen. They stood like that for a while, and Brandon simply stood there. This, like everything else they'd done, was heaven. And then she moved her hands lower to his pelvis, and he groaned. "You're a cruel woman, my love. That's torture."

"Do you like to be tortured?"

"To a certain extent," he answered, gasping as she lightly brushed over his member with her delicate fingers.

"Does it feel good when I do this?"

"Oh, God, yes."

"And this?" She wrapped her hand around him now, and he was powerless, felt his knees buckle as she stroked him. He moaned. The little vixen. She had him completely under her spell. Where had she learned that he would like this? Oh, yes. He'd taught her last night. She was a very fast learner. Top marks, head of the class.

"Would you like to come back to bed?" she asked from where she stood behind him, and he nodded, gulped, and clung to her tugging hand as she led him. She gently guided him to lie down, and she sat next to him, continuing her sweet caresses. For now, while he still had some self-control, he let her do as she pleased, getting to know what he liked and what he positively adored. He planned, after all, to do the same with her.

Her hands slipped down his thighs, feeling the coarse hair that grew juxtaposed against the softer skin and firm muscle underneath, and suddenly she stopped. He knew where it was her hand had landed, and he braced himself for the coming question.

"Where did you get this one?" she asked, touching the scar tissue on his inner thigh.

"That's quite a long story."

"It looks newer-is it from India as well as the others?"

"Erm...no." He cleared his throat. "Do you really want to know? Right now isn't exactly the best time to tell it, when we're…" he struggled for words. She looked up at him expectantly, her own infuriating patience clashing with his increasing need for her. "You know about that...that misguided duel I had with Willoughby, when...after…"

She sat up straight and covered her mouth with her hands. "He did this to you?" she whispered.

"No, no...his second did. It was afterwards."

"But you said...Elinor told me you said the duel was ended without incident."

"Well…" He ran a hand through his hair, trying to find the words. "This was nothing, really."

"He tried to kill you! He stabbed you!"

"It was in the midst of a tussle. John and he had it out when he tried to force us back into our carriage. I tried to pull them off each other. His knife...was suddenly there."

"God, I think I would have shot him, in your position. And Willoughby did nothing?"

"Please, wife, let's not talk about it." The last thing he wanted was her, half-naked in his bed, talking to him about Willoughby.

She looked at him with scrutiny. "You could have killed him. By rights, maybe ought to have killed him. Willoughby too. Why didn't you?"

"I'm not a killer, Marianne." He paused. "Don't get me wrong; I've killed. When I had to. When I was being aimed at. But here…"

"You were being aimed at! Wasn't Willoughby-"

"He wasn't a threat to me. Not really. I know I'm a better shot than him. The only thing he ever threatened was...was…"

"Me? And Eliza?"

"Both, yes. But neither fatally."

She continued holding him in her gaze. "And if he ever did? Threaten me again, or Eliza, seriously? Would you shoot him then?"

He took her hand. "If I had to. I'd sooner teach you to shoot, yourself. Eliza knows how."

"You wouldn't feel the need to do away with him yourself? To avenge your wounded honor, like you did before?"

He grimaced, brought her hand to his lips. "I learned that day, the day I got this," he began, placing her hand on his scar to indicate his meaning, "that waving a pistol at someone who dishonoured me doesn't make me feel like any more of a man."

She thought about this answer and seemed satisfied with it. She smiled, then sank back down into his arms, leaving her hand where it was for a moment, then easing it upward towards his hardness. "Would you like to tell me what does make you feel like a man?"

"Fuck, Marianne, you positively unhinge me," he uttered, squirming like a caught fish under her hands. She giggled, secure in her victory over him, until he suddenly rose up, tossed her onto her back with inhuman strength, and began to tease the sensitive flesh of her breasts with his tongue and teeth, his member pressed into her thigh. Now it was her turn to squirm.

"Things that make me feel like a man," he mused, pronouncing the words through teeth wrapped around a rose-pink nipple. "Hearing the sounds coming from Marianne Dashwood's-no, Marianne Brandon's throat when I'm touching her."

She obliged. "Oh, God," she strangled as his middle finger worked its way inside her.

"I'll just answer to Christopher, if it's all the same to you," he replied languidly.

"Please," she said, hands grasping at his shoulders. "I want you again. Please...please take me." Her eyes, which had been closed, now opened and looked at him longingly.

"Now, now," he chided. "You've been torturing me all morning. Why should I put you out of your misery?"

"Because you want me as much as I want you," she retorted, brushing a soft thigh against the evidence of his need. He positively squeaked. Finally, he had no choice but to follow her suggestion. But he had one more thing in mind.

"Would you, um...like to be on top this time?"

"Me? Is that...normal?"

"I don't care if it's normal. I like it. I want you to do it. Will you? You certainly don't have to. What we've been doing is… believe me, plenty enjoyable."

"What do you...that is to say, I don't know how to..."

He grinned. "Yes you do." He rolled onto his back and then tugged at her arms, encouraging her to sit up. "Straddle me."

"Like...like when you taught me to…to ride astride?"

"If you must think of it that way, yes. If you wish to. You don't have to."

Her lovely face pinkened. But she did as he asked. He almost swooned when he felt her above him, hovering warmly. She was still wearing his shirt, and she looked unbearably delicious in it, but he wanted to see more of her creamy skin, so he tugged at the hem and pulled it over her head to expose her body to his waiting hands.

"Now, find me with your hand and guide me inside you."

She swallowed and started to do as he asked. The glittery desire in her eyes was stronger than the nervousness of her tentative hand, and though she hesitated a little at first, eventually she seemed to figure out what she was about. When she placed him at her entrance, instinct took over. She relaxed enough for him to push himself the rest of the way in, and both of them moaned in pleasure.

"Ride me," he begged, grabbing her thighs with his big hands, and Marianne had never felt more powerful than she did at that moment, seeing this man, nearly forty, a decorated military man with an excellent reputation for self-control and genteel manners-with his body underneath her writhing, sighing, cursing, desperately digging his fingers into the flesh of her hips and bottom so he could be buried as deeply as he could in her warm sex. She realized that from here she had excellent control of her movements, and began to move her hips in time to a rhythm that her body somehow knew. The pleasure she felt was frustrating her; something was missing-her left hand resting on his thigh for balance, her right hand slid to the place where he had touched her the night before, the little bud between her legs that caused her to explode with hot, earth-shattering waves of passion. She began to stroke herself, mimicking the motions he'd used, as he matched the rhythm with his own hips. She looked down and saw him watching her in fascination and awe, and a slow smile spread across her face. Between the thrusting of his member within her and her own attentions with her hand, she was soon far gone. "God, yes, Marianne, come for me," he pleaded, and she did, crying out, her body collapsing over him as wave after wave crashed through her. But he was still working in her, doing his best from his position beneath her to ease his own suffering. She shook herself out of her languor and resumed her movements, quickening them, until she heard his breath get shakier and he began to moan incoherently. "Please, mmm...oh, God...oh, fuck!" he exclaimed, and she felt the warm sensation of his seed spilling inside her as his thrusts subsided.

"Unbelievable," he murmured, as she rose from atop him, feeling him leave her body, and came to lie on her back. He curled into her and placed a warm, sleepy hand on her belly. He started snoring lightly, and she chuckled to herself and stroked his hair. This was good. This was perfect.

A few minutes later he awoke to see her looking down at him and smiling sweetly. "Good morning, husband," she said.

"Good morning, wife," he replied. "Tell me-you aren't angry with me?"

"Angry?"

"For making you do all those things."

"You didn't make me."

"You didn't mind? I don't want you to do anything you don't want to do."

"I loved it," she whispered. "Does that make me...does that make me too wanton?"

He shook his head. "I want you to have desire, express it, fulfill it. If you want me to do something to you, or with you, or if you want to do something, just tell me. Believe me, there's nothing I want more in this world than to make you happy. And the fact that you enjoy...these types of things...it's definitely a boost to my confidence," he mused.

"You're...erm...very good at it."

"You're very inexperienced. That's probably why men through the centuries have preferred virgins on their wedding nights-to mask their inadequacies," Brandon drawled.

"There's nothing inadequate about you," Marianne assured him, scratching his back lightly.

"I thank you, my love. I hope you'll continue to feel that way with time."

"Did I do anything stupid?"

He laughed. "You were perfect. Better than I could ever have hoped for. In every way." He rose up on an elbow to look down at her. "When I woke up this morning and realized you were still here...I can't tell you how I felt. You, here, in my life, in my bed, as my wife-there is nothing better, I don't think. You can't imagine how happy you've made me."

"I hope you'll still say that when I've become old and grumpy," she replied, smiling.

"Like me?" He laughed.

"You're not old. Or grumpy. At least not today."

"You see, you've discovered the magical formula to making sure I'm not grumpy. The secret lies here," he said, tapping his finger the warm triangle between her legs. She snorted.

He held her for a while. Then they looked at the clock. Nine. Marianne's belly grumbled. "Lord, I'm hungry all of a sudden."

"And everyone else will be gathered downstairs over breakfast, waiting for us."

"God, no. I don't think I want to face them. Oh-oh God! Mrs. Jennings-my mother-Margaret-they'll all know what we've been up to, won't they!"

"Are you ashamed, my love? Do you think-"

"No, no. I'm not ashamed-it's just- do you think they'll see me differently? Do I look different to you?"

He studied her. Her naked torso glistened with sweat. Her hair was a complete tangled mess. Her lips looked bee-stung. She had a mark on her neck where he'd perhaps bitten her too hard last night. Her eyes looked satisfied, knowing. "I think I'm the only one who'd be able to perceive any major differences. But yes, you look different. A little. In most particulars you look to be the same beautiful maiden who came to my bed in innocence."

"I should call for Bess to help me dress. I'm the lady of the house now, so I expect you want me looking unimpeachably immaculate."

"I expect you to do as you please," he replied, kissing her hand.

Slowly, unwillingly, she disentangled herself from him, kissing him one final time. "It seems like we're breaking a magic spell. I don't want to leave you."

"You can come back tonight, if you want," he said. "The magic doesn't have to end, just be postponed for a while. And I'll be with you all day."

"But I like it best when we're alone."

"As do I." He kissed her nose. "We will be again, and soon. I promise."

She smiled. "Shall I see you at breakfast, Colonel?"

"Certainly, Mrs. Brandon."

"I love you."

"I love you."

She walked to her room, this time forgetting about covering herself, and he watched wistfully as her naked bottom and long, luscious legs wandered out of his sight. Then he got up, dressed himself, combed his hair, and made his way downstairs.


	5. Crash Into Me

Chapter 5: "Crash Into Me," by Dave Matthews Band

Brandon tried to make his way casually towards breakfast, passing Bess, who looked at him a bit too knowingly as she walked towards Marianne's room, on the landing. He noticed that his servants had already cleared nearly everything from the night before. It looked as if his house was still in one piece, thankfully. He would have to give everyone a nice bonus before he left for honeymoon, as well as an additional day off once he and Marianne were back at Delaford for good.

As he entered the dining room, he became aware of the smell of bacon, as well as the fact that a conversation was being hushed up as he walked in and everyone turned to look at him. He kept his face neutral. "Good morning, Mrs. Dashwood. Sir John. Lady Middleton. Mrs. Jennings." He daintily took his place at the head of the table and scooped up some mushrooms onto his plate, took a sip of the tea that the footman behind his shoulder had poured, and kept his face trained on the broadsheet that had been placed by his knife.

The silence continued. Brandon waited it out. "I trust you are well this morning, Colonel?" asked Mrs. Dashwood.

"Quite well, ma'am. You?"

"Oh, yes. Very."

Mrs. Jennings chimed in: "And how is married life treating you thus far?"

He gave her a tight-lipped smile. "I cannot complain."

She raised her eyebrows and went back to her bacon. Finally after a few more minutes of interminable smalltalk, Margaret popped in, looking a bit the worse for wear-her hair barely done up and dark circles under her eyes. She slid into the empty seat next to Brandon. The footman filled up her cup with hot tea and she scarfed it all down in one scalding gulp, and gestured for more. "How is my sister?" she whispered to him through vocal cords that had been through a war.

"I'd say she's doing considerably better than you. How much of my scotch did you imbibe last evening?"

"Enough that I forgot how much."

"Captain Margaret." She looked up at him, miserable. "Eat some toast." She did. Slowly. It seemed to help a little, and she un-wilted bit by bit until she was able to participate in the conversation.

"Where is your lovely wife this morning, Colonel?" John asked.

"I do not know. I believed her to be dressing in her chamber when I myself came down to breakfast."

John raised an eyebrow. Brandon ate some toast himself. He read his paper.

"Bad business in America, looks like, doesn't it?"

"Hmm, yes, I suppose."

"Now they're having problems with France. This Adams chap has his hands full. Wonder when they'll come crawling back to us for help."

Brandon silently thanked John for the tendency he had of making an awkward moment less awkward through his gift for conversation. (Sometimes he made awkward moments more awkward, too, but Brandon would take what he could get today.) "Not sure about that, John. They seem to have things more or less figured out, or will eventually, anyway."

"Ooh, let me see! What's happening?" asked Margaret, tugging at Brandon's broadsheet. "I long to go to America!"

The three of them chatted about current events for a while, while the women at the other end of the table discussed the events of yesterday. Brandon, though he had just seen her, longed desperately for his wife to join them. His wife! He felt a rush of awareness and memory hit his belly. Sitting here with his friends, he felt surprised that the world had simply gone on turning for them. For him, it felt as if he were at once participating in the cheerful breakfast, and floating somewhere above the surface looking down. Everything had changed.

Marianne herself was being laced into her stays in front of her mirror, gazing at the reflection of the woman she saw there. She didn't look any different, not really, but she felt...as if a new world had opened up for her. Oh, God, how transformed she felt!

She had been very quiet for some time, only murmuring requests politely to Bess, who gently asked, "Are you feeling alright, ma'am? Are you… are you in any pain?"

Marianne turned in the other woman's direction and smiled, blushing and looking down. "No. I am… lost in thought."

"Ah." Bess nodded, knowingly. "I'm glad you're well this morning. I know it can all be a bit overwhelming. Becoming a bride, and all."

"Overwhelming-yes. But… but there is so much to say for it, all in all," Marianne sighed.

"The Colonel will take care of you. Like he takes care of everyone he claims responsibility for."

"I intend to do my best to take care of him, as well. If I can."

"We've all tried. It seemed like a miracle he finally took a wife. We all wanted him to have someone to look after him. But he was so stubborn about it." Bess proffered one of Marianne's few dresses, a spring green one with darker trim at the bodice and sleeves. "He must love you very much, to ask for your hand at last."

"I think he does, at that." Her skin still thrilled at the memory of his hands touching every inch of her, his mouth...oh, God, the things he had done to her with his mouth… "He must." She suppressed a shudder but noticed the way her body responded to the memory of him, the rush of blood and the fluttery feeling that meant she longed for him again. She wondered how often he would be interested in her in that way. Was it wrong, to be so eager?

As she put the green dress over her head and felt Bess fasten the buttons, she realized how often he had seen her in this very dress. She felt a wave of anxiety that she was too poor for him, that such a fine man deserved a woman with much nicer things-a wife he could be proud to show off at parties and events. Was she undeserving of him? It was one thing to be betrothed to a penniless girl, but to be married to a woman with so few articles of clothing, and-now her mind spun out of control-so little practical knowledge for how to be a country squire's wife! If only God had blessed her with one ounce of Elinor's sense, she wouldn't feel so out of her element all of a sudden.

"Bess-" she began haltingly, "Do you think-that is to say, I'm not sure-erm...I've never run a household before."

"Are you concerned, Mrs. Brandon? The Colonel has been operating fairly well without a wife for his whole life. I think he would have let you know by now if he needed you to be an expert in housewifely duties."

"Yes, but…" What on earth did he see in her? He was so… so gifted in so many ways, and all she had to recommend herself was her youth, and her talent at the pianoforte. What if, in the aftermath of their evening spent in each other's arms, he came to realize all the love he'd borne for her was misguided-mere attraction to a girl who had no substance, no real usefulness?

"Mrs. Brandon," Bess said, sitting her down on the bed and taking her hand, "you will learn what to do. You will also learn, after living with him for some time-the Colonel doesn't keep company he doesn't want. If there's something he needs from you, he'll let you know."

Marianne nodded. She swallowed. She got up and gave herself one more glance in the mirror. Her hair had been tamed; her dress-though old-looked well and complimented her hair; she did at least have relatively new shoes on, for these had been purchased in London as a gift from Mrs. Jennings some time ago during that awful time with Willoughby and then cast aside when she returned to Barton, and she had just unearthed them to wear in her new life as a wife, as it seemed she'd need to be more fancy. She took a deep breath.

Bess followed her out of the room, closing the door behind her, and then disappeared to the servants' quarters, and Marianne tried to keep her breath steady as she descended the staircase. She made her way into a dining room that was bustling with talk, and, thankfully, though everyone glanced up to see her enter, there was not a large outburst. Everyone simply greeted her-"Mrs. Brandon." She smiled and curtsied and took her seat at the foot of the table, between her mother and Mrs. Jennings, and began helping her plate. She could tell her mother wanted her assurance that she was alright, and that Mrs. Jennings wanted something to fuel her gossip, so she stole a glance at her husband at the head of the table for fortification-and found him stealing a glance at her. When their eyes met, they both started in surprise. He raised an eyebrow. She blinked. He flashed a tiny, brief smile in her direction. She couldn't help herself-she grinned at him like a fool. Then she lowered her eyes and turned her attention to her mother, suddenly relaxed and content.

"My darling daughter. Are you well?" Mrs. Dashwood asked.

"Yes. Quite well, mother. Thank you. And you ladies? Are the three of you well this morning?"

"Do you hear her?" Mrs. Jennings asked. "Her first morning as a married woman, and she's concerned for _our_ welfare! I say, married life must be treating her very well so far indeed for her to be so charitable."

"Mother, dearest," murmured the ever-conscientious Lady Middleton.

"Am I to be chided for being polite?" Marianne giggled, feeling generous, her smile still plastered on her face. She wasn't put off even by Mrs. Jennings' humor. Nothing could make her distressed any longer-she had a husband, and she loved him, and it seemed he loved her as well.

"Oh, now, dear. I am simply overjoyed that the two of you wound up married, but you know I predicted it all along. The Colonel looks positively radiant today. Of course, you wouldn't know unless you watch him closely. He is so very guarded. But there's something different in the set of his shoulders, isn't there, dear?"

"I cannot pretend to know," Lady Middleton answered. "I hope that the two of you will be very happy."

Marianne, whose thoughts had trailed to her husband's shoulders and the way they felt, bare and warm and strong under her wandering hands, nodded. "I think we shall be, after all." She bit her lip.

When Brandon saw her take her bottom lip between her teeth, in one of the obsessive stolen glances he couldn't help himself from taking, he shivered. Like a much younger man, he found himself at once exhausted from their lovemaking, and strangely aching to repeat the experience now, so soon afterwards. Would she find him too eager if he wanted her again tonight? He didn't think he'd be able to get enough of her.

John was talking to Margaret about dogs. "And I hear that your new brother-in-law has a bitch that's due to whelp in a couple of months. Did he tell you?"

"No, he did not! Brandon, shame!" Margaret chided, mouth half-full of bacon. "Can we go see her?"

"I wager we can, but there's not much to see right now. She looks roughly the same as she looked the last time you saw her, and hasn't started growing yet."

"Is it Eurydice?"

"No, Calliope. The all-black one."

"Oh, she's so sweet! Are you going to keep the puppies?"

Brandon looked at Mrs. Dashwood, who was fast in conversation with her Lady Middleton, attended by her daughter and Mrs. Jennings. He thought he knew where Margaret's train of thought lay, but didn't want to offer or discourage without consulting her mother first. "I do not know yet. It first remains to be seen whether she will have a healthy and successful whelping, I suppose."

"Do you think…" Margaret lowered her voice. "Would it be possible maybe, if there is a healthy puppy born… that is to say, I have always wanted…"

Ah, now it came to what he'd suspected. He lowered his voice, too. "I don't know if your mother would be happy about that, Margaret. Why don't you ask her before you make me into the villain who must tell you no."

John lowered his voice, too. "I don't know why you need a dog, Margaret. I have twelve. Come visit more often at Barton and you can play with them."

"But they're all hunting dogs. I should like a pet."

"This puppy would be a hunting dog, too," John whispered. "Brandon's dogs are the finest hunting dogs in the county. Bred for excellence."

"But not if I don't train it to be a hunting dog. I'd train her to be a great big lap dog, who could fetch things for me, and..and..."

"What's the use of having a dog if not for hunting?" John asked incredulously. "That's what they're born for."

"They are not! They're good for all sorts of things."

"I think she wants it for a companion, John."

"Hmph. Strange. But, to each his own, I suppose."

"What are you lot discussing down there?" Mrs. Jennings chimed in.

"Dogs," Margaret uttered, taking a sip of tea.

"Ah," Mrs. Jennings responded, unsure of herself.

"One of Colonel Brandon's dogs is going to have puppies soon. Might we go and see her in the kennels?"

"Miss Margaret! You know very well that we must go back to Barton today. You need to finish packing your things! We're due to leave after breakfast!"

"Nay, Mrs. Jennings, I have already finished packing! I am extremely efficient. And also, it's Miss Dashwood now. I demand to be given my due title. Lord knows, it's taken long enough for my sisters to get married and for me to earn it."

"Oh, dear child. I forget you're nearly a woman yourself, now. Very well. Mrs. Dashwood, do you hear? Your youngest would beg leave to go to the kennels before we depart, to see one of the Colonel's dogs."

"Margaret! Have you finished packing your things?"

"I have, mama."

"Oh, alright then." Mrs. Dashwood was preoccupied with fussing over her middle daughter. Brandon felt his heart beat hard in his chest when his wife smiled brilliantly as she said something to her mother. That smile might kill him. "Your sister is going to the kennels with the Colonel, your husband, to see a dog."

"Oh." Marianne looked up at her husband, whose eyes were trained on her.

"Would you like to accompany us, my dear?"

She smiled. "Yes! That would be lovely. Unless mama needs my help with packing?"

"I can manage, my daughter." Mrs. Dashwood patted her daughter's hand. "Run along. We'll reconvene in an hour when we've all packed and made ready, to say our goodbyes."

The party gathered at table began to disassemble, Brandon standing up, followed by John and Margaret. Brandon walked the length of the table to take his wife's hand and help her up, and his eyes, when they met hers, were warm and loving-with something hidden behind them, something she knew only required the privacy of his bedchamber to be unveiled. She blushed at him, remembering. He kissed her hand. Wordless, they followed John and Margaret into the entrance hallway, while Lady Middleton, Mrs. Jennings, and Mrs. Dashwood made their way back to the guest quarters to finish packing. Bess had been asked down to bring them their coats, and the four of them bundled up in scarves and gloves and headed out into the snowy morning towards the kennels.

Marianne walked arm-in-arm some distance behind the two men with her sister, Margaret, who waited until the exact moment they were out of earshot of anyone in the house to whisper as quietly as she could, "So? What was it like? Did you do that...thing...with him?"

Marianne elbowed Margaret in the ribs.

"Ow!"

"You nosy person. Prying into personal matters you're too young to understand."

"You're not that much older than I am, you know. Can't I ask my beloved sister if she is happy in her choice of husband?"

"That's not what you asked. If you'd asked that, I would have said yes. Simple question, simple answer. But you had to be impertinent."

"So you're still happy with him, even after last night. Interesting. Nice piece of information. And dear sister, impertinence is my middle name. Or haven't you learned?"

Marianne rolled her eyes. "Apparently I'm still waiting for _you_ to learn some semblance of propriety. I shall be waiting a long time."

"Come now, Marianne. Remember what you were like when you were even older than I am. Riding around with single men in carriages; giving them locks of hair…" This earned Margaret a pinch. "You're cruel, sister." She ripped her arm out of Marianne's grasp and rubbed.

"I was foolish then. I don't want you to be foolish, too."

"I won't. Thanks for your concern," Marianne drawled sarcastically. She paused for a moment. "Did it hurt?"

Marianne looked at her and raised an eyebrow.

"You know, when he...when you…"

"Oh." Marianne blushed. "Not that it's any of your business, but...it didn't. Well, the first time it was a little uncomfortable, but…"

"There was a second time? Ooh."

"Shut it, Margaret." Marianne's face was red as a beet now.

"I wasn't being impertinent. I was just...Marianne, I'm just happy for you. Please don't be angry."

Marianne sighed. "I'm not. Just...it's very personal."

"Did you, um...did you like it at least?"

Marianne blinked. "If I tell you I liked it, will you change the subject?"

"Yes. Yes, I will." And Margaret did just that. "Do you think Mother will let me get a puppy?"

Brandon and John walked a ways ahead of the two women, Brandon refraining from looking behind him every few steps to make sure Marianne was still there and not a dream he'd dreamed, doomed to disappear. John whispered to him.

"I take it things went...well last night?"

Brandon snorted. "Nosy."

"Curious."

"Curiosity killed the cat, John."

"Christopher. I'm not a cat."

"Things went… well. Beyond that, I feel it improper to disclose."

"Was it at least worth all the misery you've been through over her for the past two years?"

Brandon smiled to himself. "It would have been worth another ten."

John took a deep breath, blew it out through puffed cheeks, and patted his friend on the back. "Well done, man. Well done."

They arrived at the kennels a few moments later, and as soon as Brandon opened the door, he was greeted with three big, fur-covered creatures who almost knocked him over in their enthusiasm to say hello. "Good morning, boys," he said, giving each a scratch behind the ears. "Mrs. Brandon, dear, have you met the dogs yet?"

Marianne shook her head. She had never been overly fond of dogs, though she didn't have anything against them. She'd never been out to the kennel, though it was on the way to the kennel. She was learning that there were many things about Delaford about which she was still clueless. How many other places had she yet to explore in her new home? "You'll have to introduce me."

"This is Ajax, and this is Priam." He indicated two brown spaniels. "Brothers."

"Erm, how can you tell them apart?"

Margaret sniffed. "Priam is shorter. And much calmer. Look." She bent down and held out her hand, and Ajax, the slightly taller dog, bounded over to her and began licking her hand, and then her face, with wild abandon. Priam slowly circled the girl and nuzzled her legs through the fabric of her gown, leaving strands of brown fur clinging to it as he went.

The third dog, a veritable giant compared to the other two, made his way over to Marianne and sat down at her feet, looking up at her expectantly. "That's Hephaestus," John said. "Ugly beast, isn't he? Staffordshire terrier, looks like."

Marianne reached out a hand and patted his head twice. "He's sort of...I mean, he's not totally ugly. I think I like him. Sort of."

Brandon smirked, watching them. "He's a kind of stowaway. I found him as a pup-he was hanging around outside of the kitchens, hoping for scraps from the servants. He isn't right for hunting, but he was an orphan, and he got on well enough with Priam and Ajax, so…"

"So, Brandon's always had a penchant for sob stories, and he wound up with this lump," John finished. The dog was licking Marianne's hand.

"The girls are inside. Eurydice has a hurt paw-she got into some nettles a couple of weeks ago before the snow fell, apparently. And Calliope needs to rest up, since she's due to whelp in a few weeks."

"Which one is the father?" Margaret asked.

"Williston says she got out when she was in heat, and he isn't too sure, but he's fairly sure it was Ajax."

"Oh, the puppies will be so precious…"

Margaret followed Brandon into the kennel to see the females, and Marianne followed them both. Was it intentional that men's trousers clung to their thighs and backsides in just such a way? She had never noticed before, but her husband was exquisitely formed. Of course, it didn't hurt that she knew exactly what was underneath… these thoughts would not allow her to continue in company with dignity, so she pushed them aside, and as she did so, she felt a nudge against the back of her leg. She turned around, startled, and saw a pair of big brown eyes in a tan-coloured face, gazing up at her with adoration. "Looks like Hephaestus likes you, love," Brandon remarked as he opened the door to the stall where a small black spaniel rested in queenly comfort, surrounded by pillows. Margaret rushed inside and threw herself onto the nearest pillow to the dog, who gingerly got up and succumbed to the attention Margaret lavished on her. Hephaestus left his place by Marianne's side and went into Calliope's pen to lie next to her. Sir John walked out and began tossing a stick for Ajax and Priam to chase. Brandon and Marianne stood in the entranceway, alone for a moment.

"Think your mother will let her keep a pup?" Brandon asked Marianne, slipping a warm arm around her waist.

"I don't know…" Marianne looked at the younger girl with the dog, and smiled. "It would cost something to keep one, wouldn't it?"

"That's not a problem. I can...if Mrs. Dashwood says yes, I can provide some meal…"

Marianne looked up at her husband. "Do you have some kind of natural imperative to be generous and wonderful to everyone whom you meet?"

He raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"You're thinking of giving my sister a dog-I presume an expensive hunting dog, plus the means to feed it. You provide for Eliza, for her child, for Elinor and Edward, for all your tenants...you married penniless me, and gave me a grand home, with no dowry in return…"

"You think that makes me generous?"

"You're the most selfless person I have ever met."

"Marrying you was the most _selfish_ thing I've ever done."

"Selfish? What on earth do you mean?"

"To bind you to me, forever? Something as wild and beautiful as you, to become mine? I'm not generous, Marianne. Everything else I've ever done in generosity has been preemptive penance for this-this thralldom." His eyes smiled, but she knew that there was some gravity in his words-some small agonizing fear that somehow, despite all that had passed between them, she was still not completely devoted.

"Husband?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm a willing partner here, you know."

He kissed her hand again. "And I shall do everything in my power to make certain you remain so."

"I love you."

"I love you," he replied. She kissed his cheek near his jawline, and then reached up to touch the scruffiness her lips had encountered. "I ought to have shaved, oughtn't I?"

"I don't mind."

"You see, I ran out of time."

"We were otherwise engaged this morning."

"Yes," he said, kissing her temple.

"Am I interrupting a private moment?" John asked, coming back into the kennel.

"Not very private, apparently," Brandon answered.

"I think we'd probably best head back. The ladies are likely waiting and ready to head back to Barton."

"Sir John," Marianne said.

"Yes, my dear Mrs. Brandon," he answered, smiling curiously at her.

Marianne stepped momentarily out of her husband's embrace and reached out her hand to shake Sir John's. "Thank you for all you've done for my family. I don't know that I have ever said it. But your generosity to us has likely saved us from disaster. I also have to thank you-" she looked back at Brandon-"because it is clear to me that without your introduction and your good will, I never would have met my husband. And your esteem for him speaks volumes on his behalf, just as his friendship with you is an indicator of your own good character. I know too, about your role in that bad business-with-with Mr. Willoughby. You've put your own life and reputation on the line for people I care about, and I don't know that I can ever repay you the debt I find I owe you."

John was completely taken aback. He looked at Brandon, who shrugged his shoulders and caught his wife's hand in his own and brought it to rest in the crook of his arm.

"That's one hell of a woman you've got, Chris," he finally said.

Brandon nodded his head. "I'm aware," he said, scratching his head with his free hand.

"Margaret!" Marianne called. "Much as I don't want to see you go, you're holding up the party."

"Out in a minute!" came her reply, and soon, covered in shed black fur, she emerged. The four of them made their way back to the mansion house, where they saw the carriage waiting for them. Lady Middleton oversaw the packing of the carriage with their trunks and bags, and Mrs. Jennings and Mrs. Dashwood stood to the side helping her supervise the two manservants that hefted the weighty items. Another small figure waited, slightly off to one side as well, and rushed forward to meet the party coming from the kennels.

"I came to say goodbye!" shouted Eliza, half-running towards them. Like a tiny shadow that suddenly came disengaged from its caster, Charity appeared from behind Eliza, her tiny legs working hard to catch up. Eliza threw her arms around Sir John. "It's been so good to see you," she said.

"You as well, old girl," John replied, patting her on the back.

She stepped back and looked him in the face. "Don't be a stranger."

"Oh, dear, Eliza, I suspect I'll be back before you know it. We'll have to escort Mrs. Dashwood to visit two sets of grandchildren before long, won't we?"

Brandon, who had his arms full of a wiggling Charity-sized bundle of energy, snorted. "Getting a little ahead of ourselves, aren't we, John?"

"Listen, Brandon, when God wills it, it will happen. If you're doing your marital duty, of course."

Marianne, who had blushed more in the past two days than she'd ever blushed in her life, blushed again.

"Why is it that Sir John gets to be impertinent and I am told to shut it?" Margaret asked, right before Eliza threw her arms around her. Margaret blinked hard, and a wave of shock passed over her face. She replaced it as quickly as possible with her trademark smirk.

"Will you come back soon, do you think?" Eliza asked her.

"I think...if I am invited…"

"You are always invited, Captain Margaret," Brandon assured her. "We will be back from honeymoon in two months, and then it will be nearly spring. We'd love to have you. Would we love to have her, wife? I should ask my wife. Wife?"

Marianne laughed. "She is my sister, after all. We'd love to have you," Marianne said.

"Say goodbye to Miss Dashwood, Charity," Eliza said.

"But she is Miss Dashwood," Charity said from her perch in Brandon's arms, pointing to Marianne. "And _she_ ," she pointed to Margaret, "is just Maggie."

"No, no," Eliza laughed, "I explained it to you on the way here. Bamba is now married to her," she said, pointing to Marianne, "and so you must call her Mrs. Brandon now."

Marianne shook her head, and reached out her arms to the small child, offering to take her from Brandon. He let go of her weight, and Charity looked up at Marianne. "No, you must call me Marianne. Just Marianne, my dear."

"And you must continue to call me Maggie," Margaret demanded.

"Miss Dashwood, I'm trying to teach the child respect," Eliza quipped.

"Yes, but then I'd have to be respectable. And I loathe the thought. It's Maggie to Charity, please. And Margaret to you, Miss Williams. Always."

A look passed between them, and for a moment, as Marianne and Brandon fussed over Charity, time seemed to stop. Then, Charity giggled as Brandon tickled under her chin, and reality reasserted itself. They all walked towards the carriage.

Margaret crawled into the carriage, followed by Mrs. Jennings and the Middletons. Mrs. Dashwood hugged her daughter to her. "Be safe, dearest. And write to us."

"I shall write every day, Mama!"

"No. No, no, Marianne, you'll be far too busy and preoccupied to write every day. The Continent! Soak it up-you will want to concentrate to fully appreciate its beauties."

"Alright, then-I shall write every other day."

"That's more reasonable." Her mother smiled. "And Colonel-" The man in question stepped up to shake her hand, but instead she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek. "You have done more than I can ever even begin to thank you for."

Backing away from Mrs. Dashwood, he said, "Au contraire. You have given me your blessing in marrying your daughter. That's everything. You've...given me the whole world."

"Please take care of her. She can be difficult sometimes. But she's got the truest heart of anyone I know."

"I won't break it, Mrs. Dashwood."

She nodded. "Thank you." And she ascended into the carriage.

Waving, Marianne, Brandon, and Charity watched as the carriage began its trek back to Barton Park.

"This feels somehow official," Marianne mused. "I'm of Delaford, fully, now. I didn't get into the carriage and drive off with the others. I'm...I'm staying."

"I hope you don't regret it," Eliza said. "That wouldn't please us, would it, Colonel?"

"Not one bit," he answered, his voice heavy with emotion.

"I don't. I love it here."

Eliza noted, "She's one of us now."

"One of us!" Charity echoed from where she stood clutching Marianne's skirts. "Marianne, tell story."

"Me? Tell story? I don't know any Raja stories."

"No. Tell other story. Mama says you know lots of stories."

Eliza shot her an apologetic look. "I told her you like to read."

"I do like to read. I'll think of something. Would you like to go inside?"

"Yes. And then, you tell story."

Marianne held the small child's hand and led her inside. Brandon and Eliza watched them go.

"How are you?" Eliza asked.

"I'm not sure," Brandon replied. "I feel...so happy...it hurts, somehow."

Eliza put her head on his shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around her. "You'll get used to it."

"I? Are you happy, too, Eliza?"

Eliza watched her daughter disappear into the entrance hall. "When I look at Charity, it's as if all the hardship, all the darkness, was completely worth it. She's everything to me. I love her so much it hurts."

"Then you do understand."

"I do." She paused, lost in thought for a minute. "I think any kind of love, real love, romantic or otherwise, brings with it an ache. It's God's way of reminding us that nothing in this world is perfect, no matter how happy we may be."

"You sound positively wise," Brandon pronounced.

"I learned from the best," she teased, poking him in the side. "Let's go in. I'm turning into a bloody icicle out here." And they made their way into the house and followed the sound of Charity's laughter into the drawing room.

Note: Sorry it's been a while. I have a few more chapters here in the works for this story, and most of them are fluff, and some of them are smut. These take me longer to write somehow than tension; tension is much easier to write, but happiness and warm fuzzies don't motivate me the same way. So please be patient-you will get a finished product! I promise!


	6. Fire and the Flood

Chapter 6: "Fire and the Flood," by Vance Joy

Marianne stared into the eyes of the small girl for the longest time, until finally Charity broke the stare, blinked, and succumbed to a fit of laughter. Marianne couldn't help herself: she laughed, too. "I won!" she exclaimed. Charity stuck out her tongue and blew a raspberry.

"Rude, Charity!" Eliza's voice announced as she entered the drawing room followed by the Colonel. The two of them stood watching Charity and Marianne at their game.

"Bamba!" Charity shrieked, "she beat me!"

"You'll have to practice harder, then, and next time you may beat her." Marianne started as Brandon picked up the small child and tossed her into the air, catching her and swooping her low to the ground.

"Eliza," he said, "would you care to join us for lunch?"

Eliza looked at Marianne, relaxed on the sofa and enraptured at the sight of her new husband. "I couldn't intrude. We'd best be going."

"Noooo!" shrieked Charity. "Mummy, can't we stay?"

"Please, Miss Williams," Marianne entreated, smiling and reaching out her hand for Eliza's. "We'd love to have you."

"Well, if you're sure," she said, coming to perch on the sofa next to Marianne.

"We'll be gone for ever so long and won't have an opportunity to see you. I should hate to miss out on your company today."

Eliza smiled. "You are too, too kind, Mrs. Brandon. I didn't- I didn't think you'd welcome us barging in on your wedded bliss today."

Marianne laughed. "He'll have me all to himself for two months, nearly. I suspect he'll get tired of me. Best put that off as long as possible."

"I shall never tire of you, love," Brandon said, gasping for air as he set Charity down on the ground and watched her run a circle around the room, narrowly missing the end table.

"It looks like you're growing tired already," Marianne smirked.

"Only because Charity is quite a bit bigger than she used to be. That was never as difficult as it is now."

"Children do grow," remarked Eliza. "Much to our chagrin. And I suspect you're quite tired after yesterday. You danced more than I have ever seen you dance. I'm surprised you're even awake today."

"Are you suggesting that I'm too old to take part in a night of revelry?"

"No, I'm suggesting it isn't your wont. Your husband, Mrs. Brandon, is often found retiring at ten with his books. Sometimes even earlier. In case you weren't aware."

"That suits me well, for I like to be awake early enough in the morning to see the sunrise," Marianne replied.

"Do you?" Brandon asked.

"If it pleases you." She smiled at him. "I can find joy and beauty in starry evenings as well as early mornings. But I'd like it best if I enjoyed them with you."

"You two border on the ridiculous," Eliza proclaimed, watching the two of them smiling shyly at each other across the room. "You ought to have married her a year ago and had done with it, so you'd be used to each other by now and I wouldn't have to be in the middle of this simpering lovey-dovey nonsense."

Marianne, used to her sister Margaret's sarcastic language, took the criticism in stride. "He didn't ask me a year ago."

"She didn't love me a year ago."

"You're both silly."

"Silly, silly!" Charity echoed, attaching herself to Marianne's legs and climbing up to sit on her lap.

"Mrs. Brandon, do you know how long he's been mooning over you?"

"Not fair, Eliza," Brandon said, coming to sit in between them.

"It's nice to know, however," Marianne responded quietly. She sat forward and allowed Brandon to put his arm around her, and rested her head on his shoulder. She inhaled the masculine scent of him, mingling with the sweet, just-washed floral scent coming from the top of Charity's head. "It was inevitable that I should have fallen in love with him eventually. After all, he's very rich."

Eliza cackled at that. "I do like her, Colonel. Please keep her."

"I intend to," he murmured into Marianne's hair.

"Miss Williams, you really must call me Marianne. I want us to be closer friends."

"Will you call me Eliza?"

"I shall, if you'd like."

"Then it's settled."

"That was too easy. I've been trying to get her to call me Christopher for years."

"I can't make myself. I've tried," Eliza retorted, "but there doesn't seem any propriety in calling the man who raised you by his Christian name."

"But _Colonel_ seems overly formal."

"Well, I can't call you father. Frankly I'm not very fond of fathers," Eliza finished, looking at Marianne and shrugging.

"They're alright, if you happened to have had a good one," Marianne explained.

"Your father-was he a good man?"

"He was. He loved us very much, my sisters and me. He did his best by us."

"That's excellent. And enviable."

Marianne smiled sadly. She wished things had been different for Eliza, and knew that, with Charity, history was now repeating itself. Brandon rumbled, "I should have been a better caretaker. I'm sorry."

"You were perfect. And you'll be the best father a child could ask for, when the time comes." Marianne felt herself tense up at this statement, then relax slowly when she saw that her husband was nonplussed. "I just hated that I had to be a burden on you. On both of you, now. That was never supposed to happen."

Marianne responded, "You aren't a burden on us."

Brandon joined her: "You have never been a burden. You're family."

Eliza smiled after a minute. "A strange family we are, though."

"In what way are we strange? You'll be like...like another sister to me. That isn't so strange, is it?" Marianne asked.

"And also sort of like a daughter," Brandon quipped, stroking Charity's hair as she drifted off to sleep in his wife's arms.

Marianne conceded, "You're right. It's strange."

"Because I'm far too old for you."

"No, you aren't. I think you're exactly perfect for me." She placed a kiss on his cheek.

"See, this is what I mean," Eliza interjected. "Disgustingly cloying."

"Eliza, why don't you make yourself useful and order up a cold luncheon, instead of being judgmental," Brandon suggested. Eliza got up from her seat, saluted Brandon, and left the room after taking the sleeping child out of Marianne's arms and laying her on the seat of the chair nearest the hearth. The child didn't stir, and her heavy breathing indicated that she would be asleep for some time.

Marianne looked up at her husband, noted that, for all intents and purposes, they were alone in the room, and tilted her chin up in search of a kiss. He obliged. Slowly, sweetly, his mouth moved on hers, unhurried and undemanding, just savoring her. His hands cradled her face. As he broke away from her a minute later, his thumb brushed against her swollen bottom lip and she bit down on it, causing him to raise his eyebrows in surprise. Her eyelids fluttered heavily as she pushed his hand to the side and grabbed his face, pulling his lips to hers again, his gasp of surprise becoming a muffled moan as she bit his bottom lip.

"I was going to ask if you wanted chicken or ham, but I can come back," Eliza's voice interjected from miles away where she stood in the doorway.

Brandon delicately extracted himself from his wife's lips and mumbled, "Sorry."

"Chicken," Marianne weakly managed.

"Honestly. And there's a child in the room."

"Eliza, do you intend to lecture me on propriety?"

"No, Colonel, of course not!" sang Eliza,and she made a graceful exit. Colonel Brandon turned to make sure she was gone and then descended once more onto his wife's mouth, his arms circling around her. When she started to make that whimpering sound again, though, he backed away.

"Erm...Marianne, I-we should stop."

She pouted. "I know." He took delight in the fact that she was breathing heavier than normal. "But I don't want to."

He laughed breathlessly, putting the length of the sofa between himself and the woman he'd married. "I think if this continues any longer I'd have no choice but to carry you upstairs and ignore our guests completely."

"Will you-that is, tonight, when we're alone again-will you want to…"

"Dear God, yes. Do you think I'd waste an opportunity if it was offered?" The smile that broke over his face involved his whole face, eyes, nose, cheeks, everything. "I'm not getting any younger. I fully intend to enjoy you while I can. Especially considering how very...very enjoyable you are."

"You're...you're...I can't even describe how you make me feel, Christopher. Words literally fail me. And I'm very good at...at words."

"You're very good at words?" he mocked gently.

"You see what you do to me?"

He laughed, and she followed suit. "I must be doing something right, if you're laughing."

"I laugh frequently with you. You're very diverting."

"You used to think I was dull, I have it on authority."

"Yes. And I used to be quite stupid."

"Never. I'm actually just as dull as Eliza says. I do go to bed remarkably early."

"That's alright. Just because you're in bed doesn't mean you're sleeping, does it?"

He paused. "I suppose it doesn't have to."

She smiled sweetly. "I'm confident you can think of all sorts of things we could do instead."

"Marianne," he said in a warning tone. "This is getting dangerously close to seduction."

"Is it?" she asked coolly. "I'm sure I wouldn't know. I am very inexperienced in these matters."

"Change of subject. Please, I beg you, before I'm driven utterly, helplessly mad."

"Oh, do, let's change the subject," Eliza said, striding confidently into the room. "Here: lunch will be ready in ten minutes or so. We should repair to the dining room. Marianne, would you care to help me wake Charity from her nap?"

Marianne straightened her hair and got up from the couch, following Eliza's lead. The Colonel went to wash up. Before they went to rouse the child, Eliza took Marianne's hand in her own and checked her from going forward. "Marianne, I-I must tell you thank you."

"For what, Eliza?"

"Whatever you've done for him, in marrying him-I've never seen him so happy."

"Neither have I," Marianne realized.

"You know that he means everything to me. To us." Eliza gestured to Charity's sleeping form.

"I do."

"Will you watch out for him?" The slightly younger woman's eyes implored her. "He's spent so long looking after everyone else, and I know it's been lonely work. Will you look after him?"

"Eliza, I-" Marianne suddenly found herself choking back tears. "I'll do my best."

"Do you really love him?"

All Marianne could do was nod her head for a moment. "It's taken me far too long to realize it. But I do. I love him-so much."

Eliza seemed satisfied. She smiled, and together they woke the little girl and encouraged her to walk into the dining room with them, where a light luncheon had been laid out. After a few moments, the Colonel joined them again, and they began to help their plates.

As they were finishing up their luncheon, Charity asked to go out and play on the lawn. They opened up the French doors from the dining room and she stayed where they could see her making snowballs and throwing them at invisible targets. Eliza began ask the couple about their honeymoon plans. "What is your itinerary? Where will you be spending Christmas?"

Marianne answered, "Christmas will be spent with the Lapointes in Avignon. And then…"

"Good God, Colonel! Do you hate your wife?" interrupted Eliza. "Taking her to see those wolves?"

Marianne furrowed her brows. "We had an invitation. And I told him it was only proper, since they were unable to come to the wedding…"

"Has he told you about his sister? And her husband?"

The Colonel put his fork down. "Eliza, no matter how I feel, it must be done. And before you blame me, my wife, as you can see, thinks it is necessary. I was ready to chuck the invitation in the waste basket."

"But on your honeymoon? And Christmas!" Eliza put her napkin down beside her plate and looked out the window. "Marianne, all I can say is good luck."

"Have I-have I made a terrible mistake, Christopher?" Marianne asked. The pair of them had been all set to spend Christmas cozied up in a chalet in Switzerland, and then the next few weeks traipsing through Austria, when an invitation had come from France at the last possible minute suggesting that they break their journey for a couple weeks with Brandon's sister Constance, her husband Pierre, and their three boys, so they could all meet Brandon's fetching young bride. Marianne knew that Christopher didn't think very highly of Constance, but had felt curious about meeting the one remaining member of her husband's immediate family, and had encouraged him to accept. But now she wondered if she had led her husband into something that would make him unhappy, the very thing she'd wanted least to do.

Brandon took her hand across the table. "You were right. We ought to go. We'll get it over with, and then move on. I don't know that you'll like them, though."

"Will they like me?"

Eliza and Brandon looked at each other. Brandon said, "I hope so."

"Is there something unlikeable about me?"

Brandon looked into his wife's eyes. "Not one thing. But my sister...she is a Brandon."

"And so am I, now!"

"Yes, and perhaps making you a Brandon wasn't the best choice for you."

Eliza explained, "The Brandons are very proud, and they worry far too much about money. Your husband is the only sensible one of the lot."

"So you think they won't like me because I'm poor? I am a gentleman's daughter, after all."

"Again," Brandon replied, "I hope they will love you. As I love you."

"And you'd better hope you can hold your own tongue, Colonel," Eliza warned. "Don't have a repeat of last time. It's Christmas."

"I'm considerably older and wiser than I was last time," Brandon reminded her.

"What happened last time?" Marianne wanted to know.

"Your husband came about as close as one can come to murdering his own sister," Eliza smirked.

He rolled his eyes. "I did not almost murder her."

"She insulted me. You became protective. It's what you do."

"I need to hear this story," Marianne demanded

Eliza took a deep breath and began. "Six years ago or so, Constance and Pierre came to Delaford for Easter. I came up to see them from school, since I'd never met them. I was-was I twelve? Thirteen? And she...they...were not very nice to me."

"They all but came out and said she was my illegitimate child, which, while untrue, was at least as much of a dig at me as it was at Eliza," Brandon explained; "not that I would not be proud to own up to her if she were. But then, they ignored her, belittled her, and the final straw was when they said… they said…"

"They said some pretty nasty things about my mother, in front of me," Eliza finished.

"So I sent Eliza out of the room and gave them a piece of my mind."

"What did you tell them?"

"That Eliza is a part of our family, and as I am currently the head of our family, they would need to be respectful of her or get off our family property."

"I think Constance was sufficiently cowed after that," Eliza ventured.

"Of course, they've been apprised by now of Eliza's new situation, and I am dreading hearing what they have to say about it."

"They sound not much worse than some of my family. Fanny, for instance…" Marianne noted.

"Oh, yes. I met her yesterday. Nasty piece of work," said Eliza.

"If I can handle Fanny, I can handle Constance, I'll wager."

Brandon countered with, "At least Fanny isn't practically French now," and made a face.

"We'll get through it." She squeezed his hand.

"Marianne...they don't exactly bring out the best in me. My family...they sometimes turn me into an angry, brooding...well, they bring me back to the way I was when I was under their yoke. I don't want to show you that side of myself."

"Do you think I won't continue loving you? After all, you have seen me at my absolute worst, and you still love me."

"How could I help it?" he asked. His brown eyes found hers. Eliza muttered something about losing her lunch.

"What does she look like? Your sister?"

"Have you not seen her?" Marianne shook her head. "Eliza, do you remember where the old sketches of Mother's are? Will you bring them in?"

Eliza disappeared for two minutes or so, while Brandon and Marianne kept an eye on the child playing in the snow. When she re-entered the dining room, she bore a large folio covered in the dust of long-elapsed time. She set it on the table.

Brandon opened it and showed Marianne the first piece, a portrait of three children, the oldest standing behind an ottoman on which the younger two were perched. The oldest child wore a pleasant expression in the picture, but seemed, even frozen here in time as he was, to be overly indulged. He looked to be twelve or thirteen. "That's Charles, my brother," Christopher indicated. The two younger children looked more serious. The girl, with her golden-brown wavy hair, wore a sneer. She was probably about ten in this picture and wore a fashionable, grown-up-looking gown with what appeared to be a shawl of the finest lace. The younger boy-clearly Brandon-looked to be about eight or nine here. He held a wooden ship in one hand and wore an expression of wistfulness, as if he wished he could be anywhere other than here, sitting still, being made to pose, but would bear it all with fortitude. Marianne lingered over the illustration, and then looked up at her husband. The family, frozen in time, could little know what hardships they would experience-or cause, in the case of his elder brother-and seemed to be captured in a moment of innocent ignorance.

The next image was of a pair of children-the same boy from the first image, tiny, pensive Christopher, and a fairy-like girl with long, golden hair fanning out behind her as she played by a lake. Marianne recognized the lake from the grounds at Delaford, and had ridden past it with her husband the day they had become engaged. The girl looked delicate, and the boy held onto her arm as she reached out to place the wooden ship from the first image into the lake to see if it would float. The boy's expression had changed from somber and vaguely miserable, in the first image, to relaxed and happy in the second. "That's your mother," Marianne pointed out, "isn't it, Eliza?" Eliza nodded. "You look just like her. She's beautiful."

Eliza blushed. "Thank you, I suppose."

"Do you remember her much? Did she still look like this?"

"Only a little. I remember her much more sad, and less...less luminous than she was, then."

"I should have liked to have known her."

"Really?" Eliza raised an eyebrow.

"Yes. My husband loved her. She must have been worth knowing."

He looked at her inscrutably. And then he kissed her hand.

"Christopher, who drew these?"

"My mother. Helena Brandon. She signed them, see? At the bottom." Marianne noted a tiny, almost-invisible signature. "She was very gifted. These were some of her best works."

"Why have you not had them framed?"

"It simply never crossed my mind."

"Could we?"

"I think we could. Although I don't know if the subject matter is suitable for us, anymore. I don't really want the face of Charles Brandon staring at me each time I walk past. I had enough of that in his life. But as a testimony to my mother's talent, if you wish it, I will arrange it."

The last picture from the folio held an image that someone had drawn of an older couple. The hand was obviously different from the first two-"My mother taught Eliza to draw, before she died"- but the figures were unmistakable. The woman's dark-blonde hair was paired with a tall, lean stature and brown eyes that surveyed their surroundings competently, confidently, and compassionately, and marked her immediately as Brandon's mother. The man in the picture, thicker around the middle than Brandon, of an equal height with his wife and so probably shorter than his second son, and with darker hair, had Brandon's nose and his wry smile, but seemed much more prone to turn that smile downward into an angry or critical frown.

"Charles and Helena Brandon," the caption read at the bottom, and a flowery hand had signed in the corner, E. Williams, December 1773.

"This was drawn just a month before my mother took ill," Brandon said, tracing his finger over the image of his mother. His voice carried no pain, only memories.

"She looks...kind."

"She was."

"Would she have liked me?"

He smiled at her. "She would have loved you and welcomed you and made you feel as though her home was your own. She had impeccable manners and a warm heart beneath them to give them substance. You would have delighted her. She loved to hear her children play at the pianoforte, and you're better than any of us."

Marianne shook her head. "Surely not."

"That's one way to impress Constance," Eliza mused. "Have her play a little. Show her off."

"Will I need to impress her?"

"My love, you need do nothing but stand there and be your wonderful self."

"For you, maybe. But I want to make a good impression. I don't want her to think you made a poor choice."

"What she thinks will be for her to say. Do you really care so much what she thinks?" Brandon asked, pained.

"I care what you think. And I don't want to make you look foolish in your choice of wife."

Brandon shook his head and looked into the distance. It was obvious that he was worried, and this bothered Marianne, but what he was really worried about was that his cruel sister would say something to make his wife feel she wasn't welcome in his family. She'd done it before to his ward. And she might do it again to the woman who had captured his heart, and that was insupportable.

Eventually Charity had tired herself out outside, and Eliza decided it was a good time to take her home. She hugged Brandon tightly, and then Marianne, and Charity wept bitterly to leave them both until Brandon promised that they'd bring her back a present from their journey, and then she sniffled and allowed her mother to escort her back to the nearby cottage where they lived.

Brandon took a deep breath to see that he and Marianne were finally alone, but alas, as soon as he did so, he noticed a messenger coming down the road-Edward Ferrars' manservant, come to deliver an invitation to dine at the parsonage tonight.

"What do you think? Shall we say goodbye to your sister and brother-in-law before departing for Europe?"

Marianne nodded. "Is there anything left to do before we begin our travels tomorrow? Are you packed, fully?"

Brandon thought. "I believe I nearly am. I haven't packed any books yet, because I didn't know what I'd be reading. Would you help me do so later?"

"Of course. I need to make sure all my clothes are ready to go for the morning. And I need to dress for dinner."

"Let's go upstairs, then."

Bess had been busy all morning and afternoon making sure all of Marianne's things were laundered, folded, and packed into her trunk. As Marianne inspected it one last time in the dressing room she shared with her husband, she realized once again how little she had in the way of possessions. She had left so much behind those years ago at Norland, and her life at Barton had been relatively impoverished. Now, she thought of Constance Brandon, who-according to Eliza and Christopher-would likely not be the type to fail to notice that she had only four good day dresses packed, and only one ballgown. She'd always scorned the type of women who focused overmuch on their physical appearance and their wardrobes, but now that she was in a position to damage her husband's reputation if her own appearance wasn't spot-on, she felt suddenly self-conscious. She would just have to make do. If he was happy with her, she'd have to trust that he would continue to be.

Brandon, who'd gone to the kitchen to let the cook know she wouldn't be needed this evening and to request that the carriage be brought around, found his way back upstairs where his wife knelt over her mostly-empty trunk. He padded over to her and sat on the bench near her, watching her for a minute. She took out a dress that wasn't overly formal but would do for Elinor's house, and turned, jumping to see him there. "Oh. Hello."

"Hello." He held up four books. "I think _Paradise Lost_ , _Humphrey Clinker_ , and _Robinson Crusoe_ ; plus, you've still to read _The Vicar of Wakefield_. And I've never gone anywhere for any length of time without picking up five or six more books to read, anyway. What say you?"

"Oh, also!" Marianne rushed up, her fashion woes utterly forgotten, and ran over to her own little bedside table in the adjoining room. "You need to read _The Man of Feeling_ , and _The Mysteries of Udolpho_. And we can't forget to take _Lyrical Ballads_ , which I just realized, I am embarrassed to admit, I never did return to you."

"I take that to mean you liked it?"

"I think it is my favourite now."

"I'm glad." He smiled.

She ran back into the dressing room carrying her offerings, and saw that her freshly-ironed dress was lying on the floor and that Brandon was stooping to pick it up.

"I think our books will fit in my trunk, if you'd like to put them in." He did so, and she laid her three on top and closed the lid of the trunk. Their eyes met. "I need to dress for tea," she said.

"Shall I ring for Bess?"

"Or...or you could help me."

"Me?" He looked down. "If you like."

"I want to preserve one small moment of time alone with you before we go into company again. Just-just to feel your hands on me for a minute."

"Oh, Marianne…"

"Could you help me with my buttons?" She came to stand in front of him, twisting the hair gathered at the nape of her neck to one side so he could see what he was doing. After a minute in which she could feel him steel himself, she felt his cool fingers begin to work their way down the placket of her dress, and then gently slide the fabric of her neckline down her shoulders, exposing them along with her stays and the chemise she wore underneath. He began to kiss the soft skin of her neck, placing his hands on her waist. Marianne regretted accepting Elinor's invitation, even though she loved her sister. Suddenly this was where she wanted to be, and nowhere else would do.

"Christopher," she whispered, "promise me you'll continue this when we come back tonight."

"Marianne, my darling… whatever you want. I'm yours. Completely, totally yours to command."

"Promise me, then. Promise me you'll...make love to me."

"Yes. I promise. God, yes." His voice sounded on the edge of tears.

"Then will you help me put on my evening dress?"

He reluctantly moved away and fumbled with the fabric of the white printed cotton dress, and she put it over her head, and he struggled to button the buttons up. She adjusted the lace at her bodice, and straightened out her skirt, turning around to face him. He reached up to trace the neckline of her dress, the curves of the tops of her breasts. "My love... I'm blown away by your beauty. Every inch of you...my God." He bowed his head.

She put her hands on his shoulders. "Christopher, I want so badly to kiss you right now but I know if I do I'll never stop."

He nodded his head. He kissed her forehead. "I've never wanted anything or anyone the way I want you, Marianne. In all my years of life…"

"You can have me. I'm yours."

He just held her, breathing in the smell of her hair, for a long time. She found that she was somewhere between smiling and weeping, and she laughed at herself. He drew back to see her laugh, smiled himself, and then held her closer. "I love you."

"I love you."

One final squeeze and he let her go, and began to take off his workaday jacket and replace it with the nicer one he wore to tea. And they bundled up in gloves and wraps, left the house and entered the carriage, making their way to the parsonage.


	7. Heroes

Chapter 7: "Heroes," by David Bowie

Marianne was wrapped in her new velvet shawl beneath her winter-weight coat, and Brandon had been thoughtful enough to put the footwarmer in the floor for her, but she still shivered as she sat in the carriage and waited for her husband to slide in next to her. Shaking, she watched his mouth purse thoughtfully and answer questions, then laugh, smiling, then take his leave of his interlocutor (Williston), and finally saw him disappear briefly before opening the door and letting the frigid air in as he ducked under the doorway and crawled inside. Seeing her there wrapping her arms around herself in the cold, he gave her an apologetic look. "Oh, love. I'm sorry. I've kept you waiting. Come." And he held out his arm for her to sit as close to him as possible, so she could warm herself further by his heat. She was powerless to do anything else, her teeth chattering. "How do you propose to survive in Switzerland if this little coastal breeze sets you to freezing?" he teased.

"I shall wear every scrap of clothing I've packed, I suppose."

"That's not how I would choose to keep you warm," he replied, raising an eyebrow, and she chuckled. Then she nestled in and found herself, in her cold state, feeling sleepy and closing her eyes.

"Are you going to sleep on me?"

"Just a short rest."

"It won't be ten minutes in the carriage."

"That's alright. Tell me a story," she said, smiling sweetly, her eyes remaining closed.

He cleared his throat. "A story?"

"Mmm hmm. A bedtime story."

He smirked. "Once upon a time, there was a small tiger named Raja, who was the tiniest tiger in the whole jungle-"

She laughed. "No, no. Tell me a true story."

He thought for a moment. "What kind of story?"

"Tell me...tell me about the first moment you saw me."

He stared at her for a long moment, her round, rosy cheeks flushed from cold, her long eyelashes shut over those green eyes that would have looked straight into the heart of him and unbuttoned all the regimented rigour of his military training, his Spartan habits, and brought his soul to life again. "You vain thing. You want me to tell you about the first time I realized how beautiful you are." She grinned in her sleepy languor. He snorted and tugged her to him more tightly. "Once upon a time there was a man called Christopher, and he was invited to stay with an old army friend for a fortnight to shoot guns and forget his troubles."

"Was he very unhappy?"

Brandon paused. "Yes." Marianne's smile fell, and she placed a kiss on the underside of his chin. "His ward had disappeared. And he feared for her safety and her life. And beyond all that, he was very, very lonely."

"He did not deserve to be so lonely. He should have taken a wife sooner and been contented."

"Perhaps. Perhaps God was preserving him for something greater."

"I'm not so very great, Christopher."

"Shush. You're spoiling the ending."

She smiled into his collar.

"When he entered his friend's house, he found that he was entertaining new neighbors. Three sisters and their mother. The oldest sister was buried in troubles of her own, and Christopher saw that she would make a fine friend. The youngest sister was too young to know that the adventures in her mind were mere fancy, and that the real adventures in this world are much, much greater. And the middle sister-"

"Oh, this is going to be my favourite part. Was she very wonderful and beautiful?"

He laughed gently. "Actually she seemed rather cruel at first."

Marianne sat upright. She looked hurt.

Brandon looked into his wife's eyes with mirth, and said, "Christopher overheard her say to her younger sister, from where he stood across the room, that anyone so old as he was and still unmarried was doomed to be single forever."

Marianne's eyes apologized. "I was so heartless. And rude."

He smiled into her eyes. "She also said some other honest things, without much thought for propriety. Like telling Sir John, when he mentioned the American abolitionists, that slavery was, and I quote, 'an abomination that no civilized man ought ever to bear lightly.' And arguing with Mrs. Jennings over the correctness of a woman shaking hands with a man. I-er-Christopher realized that this young woman was terribly passionate and full of conviction, and some unpleasant truths must needs creep their way into her discourse, in the interest of true honesty. Like the truth of Christopher being older than Methuselah."

"You're not so old, and you weren't then, either. I was just young and stupid."

"And then they sat her next to him at dinner."

"Did we? Oh, yes, I seem to remember-"

"And he noticed, though they made polite conversation the whole time, that her eyes flashed in indignation when he told her his favourite composer was Bach."

"It is your one true moral failing."

"And he realized at that moment that something came to life in him, something unrecognizable, when he saw her eyes light up with emotion-something he didn't think he would ever have been able to feel again. And then, after dinner, she began to play on the pianoforte."

"Oh, my dear-"

"Do you know that I have no recollection whatsoever of what it was that you played that night?"

"I seem to remember Vivaldi."

"I seem to remember that look on your face-the one where you're concentrating, and I can see the wheels turning behind those eyes. That was when I knew."

"You ought to have hated me."

"How could I have? You fascinated me."

"Because I'm rude and opinionated and outspoken?"

"Because of your passion." He paused. "You were an unpolished gem, but I knew what it was I had found. I can recognize quality, Marianne. I'm not a fool… and I also never, in a million years, would have dreamed that you'd see something in me worth capturing your attention. I didn't want to cage you."

"You haven't-you haven't caged me. I have never felt more… free," she replied, looking at him and realizing the truth of her words. "And you are every bit as passionate as I am. You just wear it differently, and people respect you for it."

"Because I am a man."

"And because you bear yourself so calmly."

"It's because I am old." She elbowed him in the ribs. "Would you do your elderly husband an injury?"

"I don't think the elderly can do...what we did last night. And this morning. At least not with any ease."

"I'd be happy to test that theory again." He bit her earlobe.

"Patience, husband. We've nearly arrived at Elinor's."

And the carriage slowed and they descended. Edward came out to greet them, and Brandon handed his wife out of the carriage and then placed his hand on the small of her back as he led her into the parsonage. Such a small thing filled her with such warmth that she forgot how cold she had been.

Edward and Elinor provided them with a lovely tea, and delightful conversation. They repeated their plans for the honeymoon in detail-though at first Marianne was shy about this, realizing suddenly how meagre her sister's own wedding trip had been, her sister asked questions so enthusiastically that Marianne began to feel excited, and listen raptly as her husband laid out their itinerary. He kindly glossed over their misgivings about visiting his sister in France, merely said that they would spend Christmas there before journeying on. Edward and Elinor reminisced about their own honeymoon in Lyme, and the sights and people they had seen. Marianne reflected that listening to a conversation between her sister and brother-in-law had become like watching a dance of sorts. They finished each other's phrases and sentences so gracefully, it was clear they were of one mind and one heart. Elinor, always so practical, had found a man capable of bringing out her senses of humour, joy, and adventure, and though the pair of them lived a very sparse life (despite the Colonel's generosity, for he was always, she knew, giving them whatever he could to make them comfortable), they seemed genuinely happy.

After dinner, Edward and Christopher went to Edward's study to go over some final plans for the church roof that, in Christopher's absence, Edward would have to oversee. Elinor and Marianne crept into the nursery to stare at baby William, who had been sleeping-but who promptly woke up and started crying. At two months old, he was so small and helpless, and Marianne felt an urge so strong it surprised her to pick him up and rock him back to sleep. Having achieved success, her sister smiling on her, she reluctantly put him back in his cradle and tiptoed out into the hallway and towards the drawing room.

"Marianne?"

"Yes, sister?"

"Are you alright?"

"What do you mean?"

"Did everything go...alright last night?"

"Oh. That." Marianne blushed and sat down on the divan. "He was very...erm…attentive."

Elinor patted her sister on the shoulder. "I just wanted to let you know that it does get easier with time. The pain doesn't last forever. It really does help to relax."

Marianne studied her sister. "Elinor, do you find it...enjoyable?"

It was Elinor's turn to redden. "In its own way, yes. It takes some time, though, to feel...a sort of pleasure."

Marianne realized: what had taken perhaps many attempts for her sister, to take pleasure from her husband, had taken Marianne a matter of minutes. She wasn't sure if it was a testament to her own passionate nature, or her husband's skill-but she felt extremely lucky. And eager to repeat the performance. "Don't worry about me, Elinor. The Colonel...he is a very patient teacher."

Elinor smiled wryly. "He'd have to be patient. He's been waiting on you for two years."

Marianne laughed. "I think...I think we shall have no trouble making up for lost time."

"Well, you have your whole honeymoon to get used to one another's...idiosyncrasies. Much longer than Edward and I had before life returned to reclaim our attention. And then with William, so soon after… Perhaps the Colonel's patience will extend far enough that he won't get you with child after merely a month of marriage!"

"Oh-" Marianne started to say that it was not the Colonel's eagerness she had to fear, but her own. It seemed that admitting this would only confirm to her sister that she was as wanton and impulsive as she'd always been. Instead, she asked, "Was it very easy? For him to...get you with child?"

"It just seemed to happen. After a handful of weeks of...being intimate, I felt a change. And a sickness."

"Sickness?"

"It didn't last very long for me-Mother said it lasted months for her. Anyhow, don't think of it. When the time comes-and I wager it won't be long, with the way the Colonel looks at you-you have me to talk you through it, and Mother, and of course Eliza. And just think of how happy you shall make the Colonel!"

"Happy?"

"Marianne, you must have realized the importance of giving him an heir."

Marianne thought about conversations she'd had with her husband before their marriage-the way his family inheritance was currently aligned, and how the child of his sister-the very sister whose imminent proximity filled Brandon with dread-was next in line if Marianne didn't produce an heir. "Of course."

"Just think of how he will feel if you give him a son."

"He could break the entailment on Delaford and provide an inheritance for Eliza and Charity...and for me…"

"And any other children you produce."

"Oh, my. I never thought of marriage as such a…"

"Practical endeavour?"

"Yes."

"Did I kill the romance?"

Marianne laughed. "No. Just given me things to think about." She paused. "But surely, that's not… he was prepared to be a lifelong bachelor before he met me."

"Yes, but now he has you. Don't you think he realizes what having a wife could mean for his estate? If I were him, I'd want a child as quickly as possible to secure my assets."

"Of course," Marianne said again. She furrowed her brows. Suddenly, Edward and Christopher re-entered the scene, Edward grinning.

"Mrs. Brandon, your husband is something of a genius. He has planned out everything to a tee. I cannot thank him enough for his patronage."

Marianne looked up at her husband, who looked uncomfortable at the praise, and beamed. Brandon said, "I'm simply doing my proprietary duty. Don't think of it."

They spent another hour together over drinks, talking and laughing. Edward asked if the Brandons would be in church the following morning, but Christopher informed him that they planned to be on the road by first light. Marianne thought this might be a bit ambitious, but kept her opinion to herself. At Elinor's first yawn-it was close to nine-Marianne stood, and took her husband by the hand. She smiled at her sister and brother-in-law and said, "I think it is time that we return to Delaford. We have an early morning."

Elinor stood, stiffly, Marianne noticed, whether from pain or exhaustion she did not know. She came over to Marianne and offered her an embrace. "Godspeed, sister. May your next few weeks be filled with joy."

"Yes," Edward filled in, shaking hands with Christopher, "and don't worry-I'll try to keep the population of Delaford from flying off the handle while you're gone."

"Just preach something about hellfire and brimstone to dissuade them," Brandon quipped. Elinor snorted.

"And look after little William to make sure he doesn't grow too big before we return," Marianne said. "I fear he won't be sweet and small forever."

"No, soon he'll be taking the world by storm, like Charity," Brandon supplied. "She has grown too fast. Look after her and Eliza for us." As he said this, his face grew serious. Elinor took and shook his hand.

"We will," she replied.

After Marianne had shaken hands with Edward, she took her husband's arm and he led her up into the waiting carriage.

She sat still and quiet for a minute, and at first Brandon thought she was simply tired. He accepted her silence and unfolded his arm so that she could rest her head against his shoulder, and he could rest his chin on the top of her head, lost in thought-in all honesty, giddy with anticipation of the joys that awaited him as soon as he and his wife were once again in the privacy of their chambers. After a few moments, though, he felt her gaze on him, and he bent his face down to search her eyes. "My love? Are you alright?"

"Oh, yes...I was just thinking."

"Dangerous words," he teased.

"What do you mean?"

"Simply that I hope you weren't thinking anything along the lines of getting rid of me."

She snorted.

"Is something troubling you?"

"Only that… well...I was wondering when you would wish for me to...to…" He gave her a worried look as he waited for her to get out her thought. "To have a baby."

At once, he raised his eyebrows. "What do you mean? I mean, we've…"

"Elinor said… said that you would want an heir, and soon. I want to make sure I'm doing everything I-"

"Elinor said what?" He was sincerely puzzled, and scratched his head.

"We spoke...erm...when you and Edward were in his study. We talked about...about how she...well, how she and Edward had… erm… expected little William so soon after their wedding, and she suggested that you...that you might perhaps also want… that is to say…"

"Elinor suggested that I would want a child immediately?" he clarified.

She nodded. "I assume that's why...why you wanted to be with me, last night."

He leaned forward in the seat, taking his arm from around her, and spoke his words carefully. "Marianne...perhaps in my… er… eagerness to be with you last night, I didn't...communicate some things properly. And I underestimated how...how uninformed you were."

"Did I displease you? I thought...I thought…"

"No." He looked at her and negated her fear firmly. "No you did not. My love, I...I wanted you. I wanted to be with you. Not so that we would have a child, not because it is the thing husbands are expected to do with their wives. I wanted to be with you because I love you and I wanted to show you how much I love you, how beautiful and fascinating I find you. I wanted to make you feel something of what I felt when I look at you. I didn't...I don't expect anything, Marianne."

"I didn't think so...but Elinor…"

"Elinor is a very practical woman. She thinks of marriage in terms of practicality, as well, for all that she really and truly does love her husband."

"Yes."

"I am not married to Elinor for a reason, Marianne. Do you not think that if I had wanted to marry your sister an opportunity would have presented itself?"

"Oh-I-it would have?"

He waved his hand dismissively. "If I had offered, she would have accepted. Not out of love. Out of practicality. She would have had a home, become mistress of a household. Your mother would have had one fewer mouth to feed. It would have been like shooting fish in a barrel. You know this."

Marianne thought, and nodded. "Narrow miss for me, then."

"No, it wasn't. I never would have offered. Even though it was the practical choice. It was you or no one. It was always you, Marianne. Not because I wanted a child, or an heir, or even a companion for my loneliness. I wanted, quite bluntly, you, your heart, and your voice, and yes, your body. And if I have those things...I don't care if I never have anything else. Just being your husband is enough."

"So you don't...you don't want a child?"

"Of course I do. That is to say, I don't _not_ want one. I've always wanted to be a father, and of course I'd like an heir. It would simplify things for the estate. But never for one minute will I be disappointed if I don't have these things, because I have the thing I want more than anything. You."

"Oh." She took a deep breath. "I feel silly." She smiled and laughed at herself. "I thought perhaps that's why you were so...interested last night. And this morning. That you were hoping…"

"I was hoping to enjoy...the pleasures of your company. All the pleasures of your company." He put his arm back around her, where, he felt, it belonged.

"And if we do want to have a child? How do we…how do we go about it? Is there something special...or…"

He cleared his throat. "I have not ever...but from what I understand, we simply...continue on as we have been. There are certain times of the month that are more effective than others. I believe it will depend on your...er...your monthly… erm…"

"Oh. That." She giggled. "Why does no one explain these things to women before they are married? Why does our society tiptoe around these types of things?"

"Can I ask you an honest question? If you had been fully informed about...about being intimate… what it was like...before you'd married me? Would you have waited for marriage? Would you have...have done those things with Mr. Willoughby?"

"Fully informed? About how pleasurable it can be?" He nodded. "I don't know." She looked up at him, and saw what looked like disappointment on his face. "Would it have changed anything about the way you feel about me if I had?"

"No. I can say with certainty that it would not."

"You would have married Eliza, even…"

"Yes. When I found her, I was...I would have. But then I knew she was near the end of her life."

"And you would have married me, too, even if I had been...compromised?"

"Of course."

"What would people have said?" He snorted. "But you don't care about that, do you?" He shook his head. "But you would have been disappointed, if I had not been a...a virgin last night."

"Not disappointed. But...there is something comforting to me as a man, to know that…"

"That no one else has been with me?" He nodded.

"It isn't about...about purity, or anything like that. It's just nice to know that, if something...nice happens, you don't have any expectations of what it ought to be like, from someone else. I can...I can teach you. In some primal way, I feel as if you are... _mine_." He paused. "Do you wish I had been inexperienced? When we came together for the first time?"

"Well, one of us had to know what to do, didn't he?"

"Many couples are both inexperienced when they marry. That doesn't mean they don't figure things out. Do you wish things had been different for me? For us?"

"Well…" she reflected. "If you hadn't been with all those women…"

He rolled his eyes. "It wasn't so very many."

"Nevertheless-did-did their companionship help to make you feel less lonely?"

"Only for a brief moment. I was never visiting that...that house," he explained, referring to the bordello near his outpost in the Company, where he only very rarely made an appearance, the house in which he had lost his own virginity to a slightly older woman with brown hair and kind eyes a few months after he learned of Eliza's marriage, "in the hopes of becoming less lonely. Just easing a need. Even young and stupid as I was, I knew that it wasn't the same."

"Still, I could never begrudge you that." After a minute she added, "I also think some of the things you learned from those women-well, maybe I ought to thank them personally," she teased, boldly placing a hand on his thigh. He covered her hand with his own, and kissed her neck beneath the ear. She sighed. "You know, even if I had been with Willoughby it would never have been as good as it is with you. How I feel when you kiss me, when you touch me…" she flushed, and it wasn't with embarrassment. "It never would have been as...pleasurable."

Brandon smiled sadly. "Maybe if you'd met me when I was Willoughby's age, you'd have said the same about me."

"If I'd met you when you were Willoughby's age, I'd have been eight."

"Touche." He smiled. "Younger men...even me...their needs are different. I was much more demanding. Impatient. It took a long time for me to learn how to think of someone else's needs."

"Then it is very fortunate for me to have such a distinguished, mature man for a husband." She took a deep breath, and added, "One who know how to render me completely useless with longing."

She met his eyes then, and she shook visibly when she realized how deeply she desired him, suddenly, forcefully. The pair of them became aware that the carriage had been stopped in front of the mansion for some time. "Oh," Brandon said, for lack of anything else to say. They were home. Just steps away from… His heart began to pound. "I-er-do you still want to-when we get upstairs, that is." _Why are you nervous? You have done this before. With_ this _woman. This blessedly beautiful, sensual, impeccably curved and contoured woman whose soft lips and hot little cunny taste sweeter than sugar, whose voice sounds like music each time she says your name, not to even bother mentioning the way she sounds when she's crying out for you at the height of...oh, God, this isn't nervousness. This is anticipation. This woman has you strung out on a limb like a man half your age. Deep breaths, Colonel. She's yours. Don't fuck it up. Prove she didn't make a horrible mistake in marrying you. Take her upstairs and show her what you're made of._

"Yes. I mean, if you want…" _Why are you so nervous?_ she asked herself. _You've done this already. There shouldn't be any more pain-only pleasure-but what if I don't do what he wants me to do? What if it becomes awkward between us?...Wait. What am I thinking? I am not some silly little girl anymore. I am a woman of conviction._ His _woman, come to that. He made me his woman. I belong to this man, this strong man-and oh, how strong he is, how he tossed me around like a weightless ragdoll until he had me where he wanted me, but so gently-this handsome, yes, handsome man, with his big, strong hands and his arms and long, long legs that are all smooth skin and coarse hair covering hard muscle, and his cock-oh, I may blush and playact that I am diffident, but when it comes down to it I loved it, loved it like the most wanton of profligates, the way it felt in my hand, and up inside me pulsing, thrusting…_ "I want you. Yes. I want you again. Please. Let's go. Right now," she said, her voice quivering but no longer from anxiousness-now the only emotion that worked its way through her consciousness was sheer desire.

Without another word, he opened the carriage door and led her outside. He scooped her up into his arms-realizing, whimsically, that he had never actually carried her over the threshold of his home as his bride. She gasped in shock, then grinned when she realized what was happening. "Thank you, Peters," he called jovially to the carriage driver who waited on his orders. "Good evening, Carter, Mrs. Williston, Kingsfield, Herriton," he greeted the servants who waited in the doorway of the entrance hall inside the mansion.

Carter, the butler, asked, "Is there anything with which Master will need assistance this evening?"

Brandon set his wife down on the floor, and she straightened her bonnet and coat. "You can take our coats, and then-" he looked down at her. "Then I think we shall turn in for the evening. We won't require your services."

"Will-begging your pardon, sir. Will Mrs. Brandon require me this evening?" Bess asked.

Marianne shook her head. "No thank you, Bess. You are dismissed." Soon the servants carried their outerwear away, and Brandon grasped his wife's hand and marched her upstairs. If he was eager for her, she thought, it was nothing to the way the blood rushed through her, making her feel and want things she had never consciously thought of. Even the brush of her skirts against her thighs as she walked caused her breath to heighten, her pulse to quicken. With each stair they ascended, Marianne felt herself ache for him a little more, a little stronger. When he finally turned the doorknob of his chamber, he sort of kicked the door open, pushed her none too gently into the room ahead of him, and then kicked the door closed again, and before he could pounce on her, she pinned him against the chest of drawers adjacent to the entrance and claimed his mouth with her own, and it was the most fulfilling, liberating thing she had ever done-to take what she wanted, without waiting, without asking for permission, and to know that not despite but because of her desire and her independence, she was accepted and wanted, and loved.


	8. When I Get My Hands on You

Chapter 8: "When I Get My Hands on You"-The New Basement Tapes

Note to readers: Thanks for all the nice comments and reviews! Hope you enjoy this chapter. It's really long. And...well...don't say I didn't warn you about the smut.

Brandon let her. He allowed her to shove him up against the chest of drawers, the echo of the door banging closed still lingering in the air, and sighed as she grabbed him by the front of his waistcoat and jerked his head down. He didn't resist her as she searched for, and found, his lips with her own, and to know that he didn't have to hide his excitement, his readiness from her, was a blessed relief. Her left hand inched down his chest, working its way over his stomach, his hip bones, his pelvis, and finally finding its way to its target, stroked his member through his woolen trousers. He was already hard. He had felt himself begin to stiffen the moment she had told him she wanted him in the carriage, and it had been an actual consideration whether or not to ravish her then and there. He prayed the servants hadn't noticed his arousal. So what if they had. Had they _seen_ his wife? He leaned back on the chest, his elbows resting on the top surface, and rested his body against it while she touched him. Even through his clothing, this felt like absolute heaven. "God, Marianne, you don't know what you do to me," he said as she caught her breath.

"I think I have a pretty good idea," she replied, tugging at the waist of his trousers. "Take these off."

"Is that an order?"

"Do you want it to be?"

"I think I could be perfectly comfortable taking orders from you," he replied roguishly.

"Well, you're rather good at giving them, and... I don't want to tell you to do something wrong." She paused in her ministrations, her confidence wavering ever-so-slightly as she hesitated.

"If it's what you want to do, it isn't wrong. Marianne, I want you to feel free here. I told you earlier. If you like something, try it. If you don't like something, tell me. I promise to do the same." As he spoke, he reached up to fondle a strand of hair that had tumbled loose from her forehead, and almost keened at the softness of it. "For instance, I'll tell you: I'd very much like it if you took your hair down."

She touched her pinned hairdo. "You would?"

"It's very beautiful, and I would like to see it down. Would you?"

She nodded and smirked at him. "If you'll take off your trousers while I do, and save us time later on."

He laughed. "We have all night, love. I'm not in a hurry."

" _You_ may not be. You may have all the patience in the world. But I am nineteen, and it's my prerogative to be impatient. So, off with them. And yes, I suppose that is an order," she added as an afterthought.

He grinned and got to work. Sitting down on the ottoman near the fireplace, which had been lit and was roaring graciously, he started on his boots and stockings, watching her all the while as she ripped pin after pin out of the back of her head. He was slowly mesmerized as she transformed an elegant updo into a glorious halo of red-brown curls, tumbling down over her shoulders and neck and back like a silken waterfall. He ached to touch it. He slipped off his coat and waistcoat, untied and tugged off his cravat, and stood to shake his unbuttoned trousers off his hips and onto the floor as she spilled the hairpins unceremoniously onto the counter of his wooden chest. All he wore now was his long white shirt, and it did very little to conceal his erection as he strode over to her and took her mouth in a hot, searing kiss once again, his fingers lacing through the luxurious tresses, tugging slightly, buried in sweet softness. She was doing her best to reach around behind herself and unbutton her dress, but finally he released her curls and turned her around to help her. The gown soon fell to the floor, and she stood in her chemise and stays, her slippers and stockings having been discarded and kicked near to where his boots lay. The slippers looked so small in comparison, and Brandon was reminded that his wife, who was not a petite woman, was still so delicate and feminine in comparison with his height and strength.

After resting his cheek against the back of her head for a moment, the good Colonel began looking to find a way to remove the remainder of his wife's clothing...only to discover that it was next to impossible. When he tried tugging at her stays, they-well, they stayed. He realized that there was a knot or two that needed undoing, and he cracked his knuckles-a military man could tie and untie knots with the best of them, after all-but he struggled. "Who on earth tied this? It's impenetrable!"

Breathlessly, she said, "It was Bess, and, yes, it is a bit tighter than I'm used to. I'll have to speak with her."

"Someone should get her a job in the Royal Navy...meanwhile, let me see if I can...oh Christ," he laughed, and had to bend her forward slightly so he could see what his fingers were doing. This position was extremely interesting, her bottom pressed against his hardness as she rested her hands on the cabinet and turned around slightly to face him. He would have to investigate this further. Would he be able to… and what would it feel like, from this angle? He groaned and thrust involuntarily against her as he allowed that thought to sink in, and his fingers lost their place on the knot he was trying to unravel.

"Christopher?"

"Sorry, just...oh, there it is. Thank God. Why do you wear this? What could possibly be the function of this thing?"

She straightened up and shook herself out of her stays. "It gives me a shape."

"You already have a shape. A nice one, I might add," he said, taking the stays out of her hand and tossing them to the ground with his discarded clothing. Then he pressed his hands against her belly and slid them up to cup her breasts. They were even-he in his shirt, she in her chemise-very, very little standing between their bare flesh. Marianne rectified this by stepping away from him slightly and pulling her chemise up over her head, and before Brandon's eyes could adjust to the sight, she grabbed his shirt and ripped it over his own head.

Brandon and Marianne simply stood there staring at one another for a long moment, shameless and naked, like Adam and Eve. With only the faintest of colour in her cheeks, Marianne said, "I am rather fond of your shape, too."

"Marianne?"

"Hmm?" she murmured, her eyes still roving over his body.

"I'm awaiting your orders." It was only halfway said in jest. Unconsciously he had positioned himself at attention, his arms at his sides, and as she reached out and gingerly took his cock in her hand, his jaw clenched, but he remained still as she stroked him up and down, his eyes forward except for at the initial touch, when they rolled back in his head for a brief second. His breathing laboured, he begged her inwardly, _please don't keep me waiting long, love; I'll die_. She took his hand.

"Come to bed."

And she placed his hands on her hips as she walked backwards, touching his lips with her own as she pulled at his arms, urging him with her body to dance her onto the bed, where, finally, she lay, her head resting on the pillows, giving him her bravest, most heated look as she spread her legs and pulled his body between them.

Hovering over her, he lowered his hips against hers, and his length lay nestled against her folds-she was wet, and warm, and he felt her tremble as he rubbed himself against her. He watched her face: she was loving this. Good God, was it possible she liked it as much as he did? He took of her nipples in his mouth as he stroked and began sucking and licking, and she nearly bucked out of his embrace.

"Are you enjoying this?" he inquired against her breast.

"Oh, yes...oh God!" she moaned at his thrusts. "Can you...go faster?"

"Would you like me to?" As he asked this, he slowed down to a snail's pace, deliberately frustrating her.

"Please...please…" and she lifted her own hips and grabbed his arse, desperately rubbing herself against him to ease her need. He sped up, but after just a few thrusts against her he realized with a gasp of consternation that this wouldn't do-he was much closer to the edge than he'd realized.

"Love-love, wait," he said, and he put a hand on her pelvis to stop it from rising up to meet his. She raised an eyebrow at him.

"Let me take a minute. I'm...I'm very close. This is a bit overwhelming."

She pouted, which he did not like one bit, so he kissed the pout off her face and reached down between her parted thighs to stroke her with his fingers, which seemed to please her a great deal. He rolled over to one side and brought her against his body, where he could wrap an arm around her, stroke her with one hand, and bury his face in her beautiful hair as he caught his breath and steeled himself against climaxing too early. But the way she was moaning and wiggling her delicious bottom and hips against him as she gave in to the sensations he was providing for her reinstated his own urgency, and he decided to try his experiment.

"Marianne, are you close?"

She whimpered, "I think so."

"Can we try something?"

She nodded, and he rotated her hips so that she was on her hands and knees. He saw her whole body go pink as she knelt there, exposed to him, but when he positioned himself behind her she didn't reject it-in fact, she shuddered and moved her hips backward, towards his throbbing member. She seemed to know exactly what was happening, and was ready for it.

"Is this alright?"

"Yes," she breathed.

He reached around her body and found her swollen little bud again, resuming the attention he was giving her, and when he felt she was beginning to lose control, he placed the head of his cock at her entrance.

"Can I-"

"Yes! Please! Oh, God, please fuck me!" she begged insensibly, tears in her voice.

Oh, dear. This would not last very long at _all_.

But it would be so, _so_ good.

He pushed into her, careful to be gentle, and when he was fully in her, they both gave a sigh of pleasure. She didn't wait but immediately began thrusting her hips back against him, and he worked his hand against her-in mere moments, she was done for. She shouted incoherently with her release. The spasms from her body pulsed around his cock, and as he looked down at her from where he knelt above her-her round bottom, the curvy thighs pressed against his own, that smooth back, and those soft curls messily crowning her head-he felt with a jolt tearing through his desire how dearly he loved her. She was so trusting, so willing, so wild-and she was _his_. This thought made him slow down his strokes, until- "No, don't stop-please, I want you to come," she begged sweetly, breathlessly.

"I'm not stopping. But, here-come up-" and he gathered her up into his arms so that she was upright again. He pulled out from within her, but only for a moment. He placed her hands on the headboard, and said, "I want to hold you." He wrapped his arms around her as he found his way inside of her again.

There wasn't a lot of movement possible from this position, but not a lot was needed. Brandon was so overcome with lust and love for this woman, and with the angle of her body increasing the tight grip on him, he felt his climax building up almost immediately. She whispered, "I love you," just as he began to release inside her.

"Oh, Marianne-oh, my love-I can't-oh-yes! Oh, my darling..." he trailed off as the spasms subsided.

He didn't let her out of his arms immediately afterwards. He didn't want her to see the tears that started to fall from his eyes as he came down from the high of his climax, so he just knelt there behind her, still buried inside her, his lust sated for the time being but his heart so full of her that he could barely breathe. Finally he pulled out of her, lay down, and drew her body to him, face buried in her hair, unwilling to let her go.

She turned around in his arms and looked into his eyes. A few tears still lingered there. She furrowed her brows, concerned.

"Sorry. Just-a little overcome. You're marvelous."

"It was good?"

He kissed her forehead. "Very good."

"I love you," she repeated. He felt himself get choked up again. He nodded and held her tighter.

"I love you." He lay with her there for ages, rubbing her back gently in little circles. He eventually fell asleep for a few minutes, and so did she, and when he woke up, she was snoring gently. It was so adorable his heart nearly stopped. He hadn't seen her sleep before, but he felt he could watch her like this for days. In sleep her face looked so innocent, the set of her mouth and the long eyelashes resting on round, rosy cheeks reminding him that she was so much younger-a sense of guilt passed through him at having taken advantage of her youth and, he supposed, corrupting her in some way-until, in her sleep, she reached out and caressed his bare hip. Her eyes fluttered open, and all the knowledge of the past two nights filled them. She was not innocent. She was a woman, and had desires, and he was her husband and had an obligation to fulfill them, didn't he? _Whatever helps you sleep at night_ , he told himself.

"What's that look for?" she asked him sleepily.

"I'm just admiring something beautiful."

"You really think I'm-"

"Yes," he replied, cutting her off with a finger placed over her lips. She shivered-she must be cold. He moved to lie halfway on top of her and began to kiss the top of her head, placing gentle kisses on her forehead, on her temples, down each cheek, on the tip of her nose, on her chin, avoiding her parted lips.

"What are you doing?" she inquired.

"I don't know. I think I'm having something of a religious experience. Don't tell Edward."

She giggled. "Not very likely."

"Do you mind?"

"Not at all. But I wish you would kiss me properly."

"I will. In time. This is a lesson in patience."

"I think you will find me a very difficult student."

"Difficult student, meet expert teacher." He darted his tongue just at the corner of her lips, causing her to whimper in frustration, and then lowered his head to the underside of her chin, and he slowly, methodically, and thoroughly drew his lips and tongue over every square inch of her neck and shoulders. Each time he looked up, it was there-that look, the one he'd fallen in love with-the bottom lip between her teeth, the intense concentration, with the added bonus of darkened eyes filled with desire-oh, dear. This was supposed to be about giving her pleasure, not growing eager again for his own. Why was he suddenly aware of how interesting those eyes were to him? How could a pair of eyes do things to his body without even touching him? Damnable woman.

 _If I have to wait, she can wait, too_ , he thought savagely, and slowed down even more in his soft, exploratory kisses down her arms. From the sounds she was making, he knew she was in some kind of sweet agony, and he decided to be kind and give her a piece of advice-

"The longer you wait, the better it will feel," he spoke into the crook of her elbow, where he was currently experimenting with how much pressure from his teeth nibbling against her flesh it would take to give her goose pimples. There it was. Her body erupted in tiny bumps, and as a bonus, her nipples stood up rigidly to salute him. He supposed he had transitioned to commanding officer now, so it was fitting.

"But I'd wager it would feel just as wonderful if I didn't wait, too," her voice sang out desperately.

"How will you know if you don't try?" he smiled, moving to her other arm. "You trust me?"

She nodded, smiled a little, and sank back into the pillows. She reached out to run her fingers through his hair, which felt so, so nice, but when she touched the sensitive place behind his ears, he took her hands and ordered her: "Put your arms behind your head."

She did as he bid her. "Why don't you want me to touch you?"

"Because I'm patient, but I'm not a saint, Marianne. You know perfectly well what your hands do to me."

"This is hideously unfair."

"Is it?" He balanced himself on his forearms in a plank position above her, his abdominal and back muscles trembling with exertion as he nibbled his way down the hollow between her breasts, down the soft flesh of her stomach, and just a hair's breadth from the soft mound that covered her sex-and then laughed maniacally when she screamed-screamed!-in frustration as he began to work his way up again.

"I'm beginning to not like you very much," she said as he nuzzled the undersides of her breasts.

"Our first quarrel," he teased.

"God, Christopher, you want me so much. I can feel the heat radiating off of you. How are you not driven utterly mad?"

She was right: from where he hovered above and between her legs, he had come fully erect again and was close enough to her entrance to take her again without any difficulty-and at this point, he could see that she was glistening with desire for him. It was heady.

"I'm quite experienced in delayed gratification," was his answer. Or at least, it was the answer he gave her. Perhaps the real answer was that he was just as mad as she was, but there was method in it. "You have the most exquisite legs, Marianne. So long and lovely. Do you know that?"

She covered her face with her hands and groaned. She knew what was coming. He said, "It's time someone paid them the attention they deserve."

Working his way down her flanks and hips, he descended first along the outside of her right leg towards her toes, which he took in his mouth one by one to test her reaction-oh, so here was where she could be tickled to the point of insensibility; he took the mental note and filed it away. Then, beginning with her ankle, he carefully began his ascent up the inside of her leg. When he got to her knee, she stilled, and when he took stock of her facial expression he saw her eyes closed and her jaw clenched. Each next move was deliberate: a careful pattern made by tongue and teeth across the tremendously sensitive expanse of her thigh, up, up, so close to her hot, wet sex that he could quite literally almost taste her-and then he lifted himself level with her beautiful face once again.

It was covered in tears.

"Please," she begged.

"Not yet. Trust me," he answered.

She wailed. "I think I hate you." Her eyes opened and turned on him with a mix of unfulfilled desire, rage, and laughter.

"You don't hate me, Marianne. You've just never wanted anything more in your whole life than to climax right now, have you?" His voice quavered as he spoke.

She shook her head. She bit her lip. A fresh waterfall of tears spilled out of the corners of her eyes, and she laughed self-consciously.

"This is how it was for me-wanting you so desperately for so long. And now that I have you-" He closed his eyes and shook his head. Then he took her mouth in a kiss finally, and it was as if she had never kissed him before-she was so starved for him that she seemed to drink him in, and she sobbed once into his mouth as she felt him rub his hardness against her tight opening and slide into her ever so slowly-just an inch, just enough to make him question his own sanity-before he pulled out and away from her again and lowered himself to get working on her left leg.

This time as his mouth edged up her inner thigh, he didn't leave. He stayed, breathing and blowing on her bud without touching her before raising his head up to look at her.

She didn't beg. She didn't plead. She lay there, shaking with need, waiting for him silently. "Patience is a bitch, isn't it?"

She nodded, laughing through her frustration.

"Shall I put you out of your misery?"

"Whatever...whatever you want."

"No. I want you to tell me what you want. This isn't about me. This was all for you. What do you want me to do now?"

"Will you...if it wouldn't be improper for me to ask...oh, _God_...will you use your mouth on me? To...to make me come?"

"I think that can be arranged." And finally, _finally_ , he touched his lips to the most sensitive part of her, and the squeal of pleasure she gave him was golden. Though he didn't have a wealth of experience in this particular act, he knew from last night that it was something that, if he followed his instincts and the sounds of her pleasure, she would enjoy immensely.

His tongue began to undulate against her bud. Soon she demanded in a soft voice, "Put your fingers inside me," and he slipped in first one, then two, falling a little deeper in love with her as he heard her whisper, "Thank you." After everything, after the miracle that was her marrying him and making love to him and lying next to him as he slept-she was thanking _him_.

Though a small, cruel part of him wanted to delay her release even longer, a larger (insistent, pulsing) part of him needed to feel her finish. At some point here she had taken her hands from behind her head and placed them on the back of his own so she could move her hips upwards against his mouth, tugging at his hair in a way that was a little rough but generally quite lovely. He took her to the edge, felt her quaver as she lingered on the precipice, and sped up, deepening his thrusts and his caresses as he experienced her falling into the bliss of her orgasm.

He lingered there for a few moments after the cries of her climax had died down.

"Mmmmm," she hummed. "That was… oh my."

"Was it worth the wait?"

She bit her lip again, fighting back a big smile, and nodded. "I think I might not be able to move for a while."

"Darling?" he began, barely breathing.

"Hmmm?"

"I hate to ask…" He came back up to lie beside her.

"What is it?" she asked sleepily.

"Do you mind if...if I…"

She rolled over onto her side slowly, eyes slitted and cat-like when she looked down at his cock, which was rigid with the effects of waiting on her pleasure.

"You're ready to enter me again?"

He swallowed and nodded. "It's...I'm…"

She reached out to take him in her hand.

"Oh, that's...that's probably not a good idea." His voice shook. "Marianne, I...I need you _now_."

"Weren't we just having a lesson in patience?" A small smile played on her lips.

"Do you think I wasn't in agony along with you, watching you? God, I don't think I've ever desired you more than I do right now. Please…" His eyes were serious, begging.

She took mercy on him. She pulled at him until he was on top of her again and then wriggled her way underneath him so that he could find her and sink into her.

"Oh, thank God," he whimpered. "Thank you so much-I-this is-"

"Oh, sweet," she murmured as he began to thrust in her. "Does that feel good?"

He strangled out something that sounded like an affirmative answer and deepened his thrusting, knowing that he was nearly there. He worried that maybe he was being too rough with her, but she wrapped her arms and legs around him and held on tight, and he lost control of his ability for rational thought.

When he regained it, he found that he was still lying on top of her and that her face was in his hands. The echoes of his cries still lingered in the air-had he cursed at the height of his passion? Had he hurt her?

"I'm sorry. I-"

"Shhh-that was-"

"I hope I didn't-"

She kissed him softly, and he kissed her back, and she lay him on his back, rolling over on top of him, and continued to kiss him. Never in his whole life had he felt so calm, so satisfied.

"Am I dead? Are you an angel?" he asked into her mouth.

"Don't be stupid," she chided, breaking the kiss and settling down into his arms.

"Feel this," he said, picking up her hand and resting it against his heart. "You might actually kill me. Do you feel how fast my heart is beating? Am I having a heart attack?"

"Shut up," she said, and playfully slapped his chest.

"See, you're frightened because you know it could happen. I'm quite old and fragile."

She muttered something that sounded like "Fragile, my arse," and nestled closer. "Did you enjoy the pleasures of my company?"

He laughed. "Quite." He fondled the hand that lay against his chest. For ages they just lay there, thinking, caressing lazily but not moving any more than that. Then he looked around him. The clock told him they'd been at it for well over an hour, but it had seemed like their own little eternity. It was pretty close to midnight. Christopher was physically completely spent, but his eyes were wide open. He looked down at the bed and snorted. They'd made a complete mess of it. Covers were disarranged, pillows were scattered, some on the floor, and he didn't even want to think about the poor chambermaid who would be gathering up the linens for the wash once he and his wife were off in the carriage towards the Channel and France in the morning. Again, he reflected-a bonus was in order for his staff, who had put up with so much on his behalf over the years.

Marianne herself looked a little like he'd put her through a war-the kind of war where all the victims are beautiful, like some kind of battle between the gods and goddesses of Mount Olympus. Her hair was a mess of tangled curls and perspiration, her skin was covered with little red welts and bite marks here and there where his mouth had gotten overly enthusiastic with her, and the rest of her body was splayed out, legs and arms resting at whatever angle in which they'd fallen. Her eyes were open, too.

"You look like you need a comb," she said, running a hand through his hair. "And probably a bath. Lord knows I need one."

"Shall I ring for Bess?"

"Oh, no. No, I'll be alright. I couldn't get out of the bed to walk to the tub right now if you paid me."

"I didn't hurt you?"

"No-just temporarily incapacitated, I think. It's good. Really." She gave him a lazy smile and reached over to the nightstand without getting up for a glass of water. Pouring from the pitcher, she asked, "Am I supposed to enjoy this as much as I do?"

"I don't think I'm going to be the one to tell you no."

She nodded. "But Elinor said...well, I got the impression that most women don't… don't really like it. At least not at first."

Elinor was a lovely woman, but she was perfectly suited for a vicar's wife. He was suddenly, monstrously glad it was the middle sister in his bed, and not the eldest.

"And my mother...and even Mrs. Jennings...well, everyone said it would be unpleasant at first. And here I am, just...completely...happy."

She sat up next to him to drink, and he pressed his lips to her leg and smiled. "Then am I so lucky as to believe you'll be willing to do it again at some point soon?"

"Christopher! I don't think tonight-"

"Oh, I don't mean tonight. No, I-er-I think the Lieutenant Colonel is quite down for the count this evening."

She had just taken a sip of the water and, at his jest, she snorted with sudden mirth that caused her to spit the contents of her mouth clean out, all over the bedclothes that were already drenched in sweat. He laughed to see her laughing, and she doubled over with hysteria and couldn't stop. He somehow found the strength to get up and find a towel, which he handed to her, and then collapsed once again onto the bed on his stomach, turning his head to look at her still giggling.

"Yes, I think I could be persuaded to... do it... again, at some future juncture," she managed.

"Maybe next time I'll be a little more ready-oh, I am definitely not as limber as I used to be." He tried to get into a more comfortable position, increasingly aware that his back had begun to ache. He tried reaching his hand behind him to massage his own muscles, but then Marianne ran a finger along his cheek, and shakily got up to kneel behind him. Slowly, she lifted his hand away from his back and began to run her own hands up and down.

"I'd like to help," she offered.

"Marianne, you're exhausted. Don't-"

"Shhh. Just tell me where it hurts." She rubbed his back, taking the direction he gave her. Her hands were small but felt pleasant, and he relaxed for a while into her touch. This was a benefit of marriage he had never considered.

"Christopher?"

"Hmmm?"

"Did it hurt? When you got this tattoo?"

He snorted. "It was so long ago I barely remember."

"You don't remember? I would think it pretty memorable."

"Well…"

"Were you drinking or something?"

"Caught. Yes."

"Alone?"

"No."

She paused. Then she stifled a giggle. "Was Sir John with you?"

"That's not my sin to confess."

She huffed out a breath of laughter. "Does he have any...tattoos?"

"Again-not my place to say. But just don't look too closely under his collar if you want to respect his dignity as a British officer and peer of the realm."

"What would you think if I got a tattoo?"

"Divorce. Effective immediately."

"Really?"

"Of course not. But if you ever so much as thought about stepping into the kind of establishment where you could acquire one, I really would have a heart attack."

"What would it even be? Don't tattoos usually mean something significant?"

"What is something you love more than anything?"

She bit her lip. "Words. And music."

He'd thought she'd say something cliche for the tender moments they'd just shared-like "you." The fact that she didn't-he respected and loved her all the more for it. He smiled. "Give me a minute."

He swatted her hands away and rolled over, tumbling out of the bed on legs that felt like jelly and walking over to the top drawer of his dresser, where he kept a spare pot of ink and a quill. Laying his hands on what he wanted, he almost closed the drawer on a small parcel wrapped in blue paper and tied with twine. "Oh, shit," he whispered. "Marianne-I completely forgot-here." He placed the package in front of her. "This was supposed to be a wedding gift. I meant to give it to you yesterday, but I...er, well, by the time I got you in here, I became preoccupied."

She slapped her own forehead. "Thank you." She got quickly up out of bed-dear God, how much energy did this woman have? His excursion to the dresser had nearly killed him-and disappeared through the doorway to the dressing room and into her own room for a few moments before emerging with a parcel of her own. "I forgot as well. Sorry," she smiled apologetically, handing it to him. He sat down on the edge of the bed. "Better late than never," she offered.

While she worked to open hers, he sat the ink bottle on the bedside table carefully before tearing into his own. The look on her face when she saw the contents of the parcel made his heart sink. "I'm sorry-if it doesn't please you-"

"Oh, Christopher-this is for a princess. This is-it's so beautiful. I can't-it must have cost a fortune."

"I thought-you needed something to match the ring I gave you, and I thought, well…" She took the gold chain out of the box, the emerald jewels catching the candlelight and sparkling as they dangled. "I saw it in London and I thought you ought to have it. It's lovely, you're lovely...that sort of thing. I'm sorry if it doesn't suit. Obviously I'm not used to buying jewelry for women."

"No, no-I love it. I just-no one's ever...it's beautiful. Thank you." She struggled to put it on, and he brushed her hair to the side-that rich, gorgeous hair that he had turned into a giant tangle with all his attention-so he could fasten the necklace at the back of her neck. The jewels lay elegantly against her bare, creamy throat. He bent to kiss her, thinking how strange it was that neither of them were wearing a stitch of clothing, and it was freezing cold, and he had just now noticed it. He turned back the covers to snuggle underneath and then grabbed his own gift, and saw her hesitate and lower her head down. "It's just-after seeing what you gave me-my gift seems silly. I don't know if you will like it. It's not nearly-"

He kissed her again.

He opened the gift-a book, unbound.

"Kant?"

"I asked Edward. He said the two of you had discussed his works-that you'd expressed an interest in philosophy-I hadn't had time to have it bound yet, our engagement being so brief; I thought-once we're on honeymoon, we can find a bookbinder, and I can make it a nicer gift. I gave Sir John the money to send for it. I don't think you have this one. It's relatively new. It just came out last year-"

Note: kissing her stopped her from rambling. Convenient trick.

He released her, and she said, "It's horribly inappropriate for a wedding gift; I realize that now."

"Nothing would have possibly made me happier," he replied honestly. Not to mention-books were extremely expensive for a woman on Marianne's income, as it had been, and this gift would have cost her a great deal of what little she had available to her. It was a German text. "We could read it together? Work on our German, before we get to Zurich?"

"Would I understand any of it? Besides only being mediocre at German, I've never studied philosophy."

"You just read it. If it doesn't make sense...maybe the idea doesn't make sense. Or perhaps you have to think about it more to make sense of it. You're perfectly capable; and we can work it out together."

"I'm willing to try, at least." She looked down. "You don't hate it?"

"You want to be kissed tonight, don't you? Every time you say something obviously silly…"

Her nostrils flared. She smirked. "Mozart is better than Bach."

He raised an eyebrow. "You do realize that you just admitted to the silliness of that concept."

"Does it get me another kiss?"

He grinned.

Several minutes later, feeling quite happy with himself, he released his wife's lips, untangled his limbs from hers, and sat up in bed, reaching for the quill and ink. He uncorked the ink bottle, and took a minute to consider. "So. A tattoo for Mrs. Brandon. What should we draw?"

"You'll get ink all over the bedclothes!"

"These bedclothes have seen worse tonight." Marianne snorted and wrinkled her nose. "Where would you like your tattoo, madam?"

"Christopher, you're ridiculous."

"I'm in love. What fool in love isn't a little ridiculous?"

"Just do it somewhere no one will see it."

"Hmmm...roll over, then." He studied the elegant surface of her back and began to draw five mostly-parallel lines across, from shoulder blade to shoulder blade, reaching in for more ink every half-stroke or so to make sure he didn't blur the lines. He blew on the ink to dry it.

"Mozart's...eleventh sonata for pianoforte, yes?"

"My favourite?"

"I remembered it correctly then. Can you hum for me how it starts?"

She hummed a little of the melody, and he freehanded a treble clef onto the staff he'd drawn and began to reproduce the music on her body as she hummed. "Wait, you're going too fast!" he chided, needing to stop and blow on the ink so it wouldn't smear. She shook with laughter underneath him and her bottom, exposed as it was, wiggled its way into Brandon's attention. He groaned-it was an especially nice bottom. "While I'm waiting on that ink to dry…" he dipped in for more ink and thought for a moment, then had it. He began to trace the words he'd thought of onto an exposed cheek, and she squealed in surprise (and did he detect a note of arousal?) to feel the sharpish nub of the quill scratching against the sensitive flesh.

"What are you doing?"

"Being ridiculous."

"What are you writing on me?"

"You can see it when it dries."

"I want to play this game, too."

"Give me time. I have to finish your music. Can you do it note for note, instead of humming? I want to be sure to get it right…"

"It will just wash off-it _will_ wash off, won't it?"

"Yes. But even so."

She did her best to think of the pitch and duration of each note in the piece she loved, and he filled in the notes on her skin as tiny as he could until he ran out of space, slowly and carefully, stopping to blow the ink dry every couple of inches. He finished, finally, and she raised up-"Don't lean back," he said-and took the ink and quill out of his hands, beginning to draw on his own skin, giggling as she did so. She doodled-snippets of poetry, geometric patterns, even an elaborate rose, the petals taking up a large portion of the well-muscled left cheek of his backside, the stem winding its way up his side. She delighted, evidently, to learn that the quill's tip running up the side of his torso caused him to suppress, and finally to release, a stream of laughter at being tickled, and applied her new knowledge liberally, letting go of the quill and getting to work, laughing herself to hear him laugh-until he rolled over, grabbed her by the wrists, tossed her onto her side, and scooted towards her feet, where he repaid her in kind. She tried kicking at him when he grabbed her toes and touched them gently, softly, eliciting a full-blown cackle. Soon, though, he realized that the ink bottle, which had been balanced on the covers, had now toppled over, and a puddle of black was leaking out onto the white down coverlet. He grabbed it and set it neatly onto the bedside table, giving her an opportunity to attack his sensitive sides once again. There was only one thing that could fix this, he rationalized through his near-insanity. Reaching underneath and around his body, he located the quill again and touched it underneath his wife's neck, the soft feather gently stroking her soft flesh, and she lost her ability to breathe properly, she was laughing so hard. "This is what you get," he rumbled, touching the feather to all the places he knew were sensitive, until-and he had not planned this, he would swear it-her snorts of laughter turned to something more sensuous. He raised an eyebrow to see her there, biting her lip (oh, God! She was beautiful), and looking down at the quill as it fluttered along her thighs, and he knew suddenly what she was thinking.

Wordlessly, he drew the quill feather up between her legs, and she threw her head back in pleasure, letting out a happy hum. She spread her legs further apart to give him more easy access, and he continued, using the unexpected toy to tease her, and then abandoning it altogether and replacing it with his fingers. He watched her face as she got closer to finishing, until, her eyes meeting his, she reached up to pull him into a kiss. She suddenly began to thrust her hips against his hand, and he sped up as she came, easing off slowly as she descended from bliss.

Her eyes sleepily blinked at him. She smiled, leaning back into her pillow. Weakly, she took his hand and kissed it. "That was unexpected."

"Did you like?"

She nodded, and he kissed her forehead. "Oh, my. It's so late." The clock read that it was half past one.

"You should sleep," he said. "We have an early morning."

"Yes." She smiled.

But they kept talking, about a thousand different things. Excitedly, she asked them about where they were going, and who they would see, and he told her about all the things he'd never done that he was looking forward to sharing with her, and the foods they'd eat, and the vista of all those mountains covered with snow, and how cold they'd be, and the way Delaford would look decked out in springtime finery when they returned, and how much Charity loved the springtime, and how dearly he had loved it when he was a child, and how much she had loved Norland in spring, and they amused themselves by thinking of the most eloquent lines of poetry about spring, and philosophically wondered why no one had written a good poem about autumn, which was also nice...Brandon picked up the ink and quill again and began to compose a terrible poem about autumn on her belly, and she chuckled, and her eyes finally began to flutter closed, and she was asleep. It was now close to four.

He shook his head. There was no point trying to sleep now. He could sleep in the carriage, he supposed.

God, how he loved her.

He picked up the quill and dipped it in ink one last time, inspired-gently, so as not to wake her-and then put them back on the bedside table. When she looked at her body in the full length mirror the next morning before scrubbing, she'd see that her bottom bore the words, "for I, being pent in thee, perforce am thine, and all that is in me;" and underneath the terrible comical poem on her belly, at the place where her pelvis joined with her hips, were written the words, "Ex libris Chris Brandon."

He got up, silently washing himself at the basin after staring at Marianne's doodles on his skin in the mirror for a minute; he got dressed; he made his way downstairs to check his office and his library once more to make sure everything was packed away that needed to be packed, and that all the affairs of the estate had been handled before leaving; and finally, the servants were up and about. He ordered a large but easily digestible breakfast for himself and his wife for two hours from hence-taking a cup of tea and a bun in the meanwhile to tide himself over. And he re-entered his room. His wife lay where he'd left her, snoring peacefully. He smiled, took his copy of Metamorphosis off the table by the dying fire where he'd left it, and, after stirring the fire back to life and adding another log, he quietly, carefully walked past the bed, snagged the throw blanket from the foot, and stepped out onto the terrace. It was his last morning at Delaford for a while, and he wanted to enjoy a minute alone, looking out on the property he'd loved his whole life.

The tea warmed him in the frigid morning, and the combination of caffeine and chilly air shook him awake. He was exhausted, and happy, and excited, and full, for the first time since he was a child. Just...full.

For an hour, he read. Then he decided it was time to wake her. She protested, but eventually, memories flooded her eyes of what they'd done, and where she was, and what they planned to do.

The beatific smile she gave him suggested that she was really happy, too.

She washed, dressed, joined him for breakfast, and then, her bags packed and loaded up, she entered the carriage, waving goodbye to the servants, and made for London, the first stop on a long journey.


	9. My Dove, My Lamb

Chapter 9: "My Dove, My Lamb," by Phosphorescent

Author's note: Sorry it's been a while. Work has been nuts. But I'm not quite finished with the good Colonel yet. Also, guys, this...this is just pure fluff/smut. Yeah.

Christopher dozed fitfully in the carriage as they made their slow way to London, and Marianne watched him.

First he'd tried to stay awake to keep her company-suggesting that she read to him for a while, since he found it difficult to read while riding without feeling ill. But soon his tired eyes drooped off, and his breathing deepened. He startled himself awake when the carriage went over a bump, blinked, and apologized to her for falling asleep, before immediately closing his eyes again and going right back to it.

It was difficult for him, being so tall, to become comfortable. He first stretched out his long legs and perched his feet on the bench opposite him, next to Marianne, and she took his stockinged feet in her hands and caressed them lazily, another part of him she delighted in getting to know. But then, when he woke again, he rubbed his neck at the pain of cramping it up like that. Marianne realized: He wasn't used to riding inside the carriage; he was used to riding alongside it, on horseback. He was, obviously too exhausted from their long evening to ride all day; and, she noted, he was probably staying in the carriage so he could spend more time with her. It was...dear God, it was adorable. The way his mouth fell into a pout when he slept, making him look boyish and innocent; the way his hair, freed of his hat, was lusciously tousled; the way he snuggled up into the warmth of the old army blanket he'd taken from his saddlebag, like a security blanket-these were adorable, too. Most precious of all was when he abandoned the hope of sleeping comfortably on the other bench, rubbed his eyes awake, and shook his head clear of drowsiness-and then noticed that she'd snuck onto his bench, wrapping her arms around him and leaning him down into her lap. He smiled a little, rested his head on her legs, and curled up next to her while she stroked his hair. Sleep once again took him and didn't leave him for a couple of hours, when they broke for luncheon at a village inn with which Brandon was familiar. By this time, she had dozed off too, and was awakened with a start by her husband, who placed kisses against her neck and underneath her ear, whispering to her that they'd be stopping.

Bundled up in all their coats and wraps, Brandon and Marianne emerged from the carriage and said farewell to their driver as he unloaded their luggage. From here to London and beyond, they'd take hired carriages. They'd made the decision to travel servant-less-it was cumbersome to travel with a large party, Brandon had argued, so if Marianne was sure she didn't mind utilizing the maids made available to her at the inns at which they'd stop, they'd do without for a while.

Brandon took his new wife's gloved hand in his arm and guided her into a bustling room warmed by two crackling fireplaces, luckily finding an empty table next to one of them and pulling out her chair for her before going up to the bar to order their luncheon, along with two glasses of mulled wine. Jackson, the barkeep, greeted him as he made his way from behind the door leading to the kitchen. "Colonel! It's not been so very long at all! Didn't you come through just a couple of weeks ago?"

"I did. I stopped here as I rode back from Town. I was making preparations for my wedding."

"Ah. And it went off?"

"Yes; my wife and I are travelling through London en route to our honeymoon on the Continent."

"Bad time of year for travelling."

"She insisted," Brandon grinned.

"She likes adventure?"

"Apparently."

"And cold?"

Brandon laughed. "Apparently."

"But I suppose you'll find plenty of opportunity to keep her warm?"

Brandon cocked an eyebrow and took a sip of the mulled wine that was proffered to him.

Jackson pressed on. "I'll never believe you, of all people, are married. I thought you were holding on to being a bachelor forever. It gave the rest of us old married chaps some hope. Where is she, anyway? You leave her in the carriage?"

"No, my wife…"

Brandon felt a hand against the small of his back. "Is right here," Marianne supplied. She held out her hand and offered a handshake, the kind of frank, modern gesture of friendship across gender lines that made Brandon awed by her openness. "Mrs. Christopher Brandon."

Jackson sputtered, and took her offered hand. "Thomas Jackson. How do you do, Mrs. Brandon?"

Brandon smirked as she took her own drink from his hand, and walked back to their cozy table. The barkeep, he noticed, hadn't really stopped staring at her since she appeared at Brandon's side. At one point, Brandon had to duck his head behind his glass so Jackson wouldn't see him laughing, as the barkeep slopped ale down the front of his apron, distractedly casting glances at Marianne from where he stood.

"What's so diverting?" Marianne asked, as she studied the document containing their itinerary her husband had given her to peruse.

"What must it be like, I have to wonder." His eyes twinkled as he looked at her.

"What must what be like?"

"To be so completely unaware of the effect you have on people. Well, particularly on men."

"Me?" she raised an eyebrow and looked up at him. "Whatever do you mean?"

Word had obviously spread, via Jackson, that Brandon was here with his new exquisite bride. Before he could answer her, two short, brawny men wearing well-made but rather workaday clothes swaggered toward their table. "Colonel Brandon! Fancy seeing you at The Black Hare again, so soon!"

"Mr. Wimble! Mr. Green! How do you do! Dearest, Mr. Wimble is the most prestigious solicitor in the village, and his brother-in-law, Mr. Green, is the corn-factor. Gentlemen, may I introduce you to my wife, Mrs. Brandon, that was Miss Marianne Dashwood?"

And now the real reason for their sliding over to the table was made apparent. Both men stooped over so low it appeared they were bowing before royalty, and seemed to fight for the honor of being the first one to kiss her hand. Brandon's mirth was evident as he met her eyes.

"Never would we have thought that the Colonel would marry, Mrs. Brandon," Green said.

"He's always been such a dedicated bachelor!" replied Wimble. "You must have done a number on him."

"I thought for certain for a while that he would be persuaded to marry my sister," said Green.

"Little did he know that it would be me, with that honor," Wimble chuckled. "I don't suppose you'd like to trade, Colonel?"

At this, Green elbowed Wimble in the ribs, causing Wimble to laugh even louder, and Green laughed too. Marianne, alarmed, glanced at her husband, but was relieved to find him amused, not angered. She snorted.

"I certainly hope my husband will not be trading wives any time soon. I'm not quite finished with him yet."

Marianne's statement, combined with the way she placed a possessive hand on her husband's arm as it lay across the table, caused the two men to dissolve into hysterics that could only be dissipated by the presence of Jackson shooing them away and laying two steaming bowls of stew in front of the newlyweds. The brothers-in-law chortled as they walked away, Wimble shouting, "Congratulations, Colonel, and best of luck!" as he returned to his noontime ale at the bar. Jackson walked away too, walking backwards partway so he could stare wistfully at Marianne.

"Now do you see what I mean?"

Marianne waved a dismissive hand toward the men and tore into her stew. "What care I for what other men think of me, Christopher? My heart is yours."

His breath stilled in his chest. The way she had said those words-not tenderly, not romantically, but matter-of-factly-burst upon him, and he knew them to be true. Knew, beyond any reasonable doubt, that she was his. His mirth was stayed, as was the spoon that had carried a mouthful of stew halfway to his lips, as he paused to wonder at this woman whom he had striven for so arduously, so hopelessly-this woman who had suddenly but no less completely allowed herself to become in love with him.

He felt her feet childishly find his beneath the table, her ankles twining themselves around his own. He ate his stew, a small smile on his face, wordlessly worshipping her.

As they finished, Brandon summoned the smitten Jackson to send for a post chaise, only to find that it would be at least an hour before they could engage one, and wouldn't they find it more comfortable to rest in one of the inn's rooms while they waited? Brandon gave Marianne a questioning look, and she nodded her head, and it was settled, with Brandon handing Jackson some currency in payment, and Jackson handing Brandon a key and promising to knock when the chaise was ready to convey them to London. The two of them ventured up the stairs and towards the room Brandon had hired, where, he told his wife, "perhaps we can take a more productive rest than in the uncomfortable quarters of the carriage." Opening the door, Brandon, full from his meal, took off his coat and boots and immediately lay down on the bed and closed his eyes.

Marianne lay next to her husband but found sleep eluding her. She was mesmerized by his face, his hands, his body, as he lay in sleep. She felt the part of her that he had awakened two nights ago stirring with desire. She bit her lip, thinking of how it was with him, his hands against her, inside her-and not just his hands.

Not wanting to awaken her husband-but knowing, somehow, that her own desire would keep her from sleep if unsated-Marianne gently eased her skirts up around her hips under the coverlet and began to stroke herself, slowly at first, but then more quickly, as she reached down to find that she was slick with desire. Her breathing quickened, and she was so enraptured in her own exploration that she didn't notice her husband come to drowsy awareness next to her; it shocked her, therefore, when she saw him raise himself up to his elbow.

"Would you like my assistance with anything, love?" he asked as she gasped, a positively ravenous look on his face.

She felt herself blushing. "I was-I just-" she stuttered. "I'm sorry."

"You were beautiful, and I didn't mean for you to stop. Please continue."

She met his eyes, then, weighing his request against all she knew about decency and humility-bit her lip-and did just what he'd asked her to. This time, knowing she had an audience, she felt a little more self-conscious-but also, in a way, even more excited.

He watched her face, the muscles twitching as she concentrated on her pleasure, and felt his heart constrict as she bit back the moan that signaled her climax, her upper body curling up off the pillow and then relaxing back onto it as she gasped for air. She looked up at him then, where he smiled lovingly down at her.

"You are so very wonderful," he said, placing a light kiss on her temple. "Thank you for letting me see that."

"You enjoyed...just watching me?"

"If you haven't noticed, I'm quite easy to please, where you're concerned." He took one of her curls in his hand and twirled it around his fingers, and then took her own hand from where it rested at the hems of her skirts around her waist and kissed it, touching his lips to the pad of each finger.

"I'm not… I don't know why you'd think that. I'm so very inexperienced."

"It's because I love you. That makes everything...so much more powerful. Every feeling, every sensation...doubled. Tripled."

"Oh." She smiled shyly. "Still, I feel there's so much left to learn. So much you could teach me."

"We'll have to learn together, then."

"Yes, I suppose we will," she replied. The look she gave him was so trusting, so beatific, that he couldn't help himself. His body came to cover hers, and he took his cheek in his big, gentle hand as he bent to kiss her fully and deeply.

The hot strength of his tongue against hers almost overpowered the sensation of his erection pressing against her through the fabric of his trousers-almost. In a flash, she realized that he would never have said anything-that he would have been content to allow her pleasure, without ever seeking his own-and that was unacceptable, so she raised her hips up to meet his, brushing against his length and causing him to whimper into her mouth-

And then, suddenly, they heard a knock at the door. "Colonel Brandon! The chaise is ready and waiting for you and Mrs. Brandon downstairs!"

He swallowed a curse and rolled over to lay by her side again, catching his breath. "Thank you, Jackson. We'll be down presently."

Brandon got to his feet, shrugging his coat back onto his shoulders and replacing his boots. As he walked to the door next to where his wife stood fixing her hair in the mirror, she said, "You know this isn't over-what we started just now?"

He raised an eyebrow.

"I don't want to let you go to sleep tonight without making certain that you've been... satisfied." She gave him a level gaze, and an almost devilish smile.

"That's a strong word you use. Satisfied," he mused, standing still while looking at their reflections together. "And unrealistic. You somehow seem to think that there will come a time when I have had my fill of you."

"Whatever do you mean?"

He grinned. "I will never be satisfied."

He opened the door and she followed him out and down the stairs, where an unfamiliar carriage was being loaded with their belongings, and she got in, the drowsiness caused by her recent climax descending upon her as she warmed her feet against the box of hot coals. It was now her turn to fall asleep against her husband's wakeful body.

For his part, the Colonel spent the remaining hours of their journey trying not to think about their interlude at the inn, his desire for her and her nearness such constant fixtures that he almost went berserk with need-if he'd been a baser man, he'd have awakened her and tried to persuade her to make love to him then and there, close proximity to the carriage driver and the unreliable carriage curtains which let in prying eyes, be damned. And as it was, he seriously considered it. Then he remembered a conversation he'd had with one John Willoughby, in which _that_ man told him some details, hurled out in an attempt to shock him out of dueling with him, about his affair with Eliza. The thought of taking Marianne in the carriage, being no better than her former love-denying her the decency and propriety due to a respectable woman just so he could sate his lust-this thought was insupportable.

 _Dammit, man, where is your self-control? Three days with this woman as your wife and already you've become wild with longing,_ he chided himself. But he knew it was hopeless-it turned out that marriage to Marianne and frequent access to her young, smooth, energetic, consenting flesh was enough to drive him to the edge of decency, and well past the edge of reason. He picked up a book from the seat across from him, and tried to read, but was unsuccessful-feeling sick within a few minutes of beginning. As the chaise slowed down at the next post to change horses, Brandon kissed Marianne's forehead to wake her. "I think I'll ride out with the driver for a bit, love. Is that alright with you?"

"Hmm?" she pouted. "You'll be so cold."

"I think I will survive. I'm growing a bit stir crazy, and I'd like to see the scenery-and I know you'd like to sleep."

"Is it simply occupation that you want?"

"Perhaps. I can't really read in the chaise, you know."

"Yes. But actually, I'm quite awake now. Can you play cards? Or can I read to you? I'm eager to start the Kant book."

"I-I suppose we could try."

In the end, he was unable to detach himself from Marianne-despite the fact that each minute in her presence was sweet agony.

As she dealt them a game of piquet and they began to play across the bench, Brandon reflected on how little had really changed in his feelings for this woman-still, after courtship (an admittedly brief one) and the first days of marriage, he was completely enamoured of her. She was vibrant, elegant, sharp, witty, and yet soft-edged, and beautiful in so many different physical ways too, and he felt helpless to resist her. He couldn't control the way he responded to her, any more than a leaf could control its direction or speed as it was blown about by a powerful wind. He was completely defeated by her-from the moment she'd walked into his dressing room two nights ago and laid a hand against his back, even before he turned around and saw her, nearly naked and waiting for him, he was at her mercy, body and soul. As, really, he'd been from the moment he'd first heard her play.

The difference? he reflected as he made an off-hand joke about his victory at cards that caused her to expose her lily-white throat to him in laughter as she gathered up the cards again and shuffled. The difference was that now, unlike three months ago, he believed with a reasonable quantity of faith, buoyed with an even greater amount of hope, that tonight this creature would be in his bed, and that tomorrow would find her once again by his side, moving through the world alongside him as his wife.

He leaned forward in his seat and took advantage of that throat, so bare and vulnerable, placing a kiss in the hollow that caused her skin to prickle visibly. He could see the soft curves of the tops of her breasts as they peeked out from the squared neckline of her gown, and resisted the urge to kiss them, too. God, he wanted to rip her gown off of her and move his hands along every inch of her skin. He settled for taking the deck of cards from her and dealing a second hand.

At his caress, a change seemed to come over her-he saw that he had set her on edge. She took that lower lip between her teeth in concentration-damnable goddess! As he dealt cards, he asked, "What are you thinking about?"

She laughed from her throat. "A lady shouldn't confess such a thing," she purred.

"As you please." He met her eyes, his own crinkled with good humour. "If if makes you feel better, I've been thinking about it since we left the inn."

Another laugh came out in a huff of air then. "Have you?"

"As I said-I can't get enough of you."

"Do you really think you won't tire of me during this journey? We'll be together so very much."

"No-I think not." He paused as he played a card. "I think it much more likely that you will tire of me. I hope...when we are in France...I hope you will not think less of me. My family does not have the best impact upon me. I am… I become different. More guarded. More likely to find fault, and to see the evils of the world. I fear they bring out the worst in me."

"I think that is understandable, given what you've told me about them, and your history. I hope you aren't angry with me for insisting upon this detour."

"No-of course not. You were right-it is only proper for us to see them, since they were not able to be present at the wedding. Though neither of us would have wanted them there, I think."

"And it is only for a few days."

"A few days in which I would much rather have you all to myself, believe me." His eyes were serious, but she crinkled her nose at him.

"Pray, what would you do with me if you had me all to yourself for that long?"

He played along. "A gentleman oughtn't discuss such things in the presence of a lady."

"What about a man in the presence of his wife?"

"It would depend on whether or not the wife was willing."

"Oh, believe me, she is willing. Very willing." This was whispered at the lowest possible register, and the combination of the words she said and the throaty way she declared them had a pronounced influence on the way his trousers fit him. Their card game forgotten, Brandon reached gently across the bench to touch her knee, ease his hand up her thigh over her skirts, and balance his weight on one hand so he could lean over to claim her mouth in a slow, deliberately gentle but firm kiss.

After several minutes of this, he returned to his own spot on the bench, not sated, but secure in the knowledge (given the evidence of her half-lidded eyes and the distracted, frustrated look in them) that she was now just as hot and eager for him as he was for her. There was something so heady in knowing that, though he wouldn't compromise her reputation by acting on his desire just now, he could tap into hers so easily. God, she would drive him mad.

"You are astonishing, husband," she breathed.

He shook his head with a self-deprecating smile. "You are bewitched into thinking so, I fear."

"Then it is you who have bewitched me. I've always been...of a passionate nature. But this...the way you make me feel…I can't stop thinking about your hands on me."

"Then we are well matched, it would appear. For I can't seem to keep my hands _off_ you for longer than a minute or two before I'm aching to touch you again."

"My God, I wish you would," she whispered.

"I promise, when we are in lodgings tonight… when we are fully alone…"

"Yes."

He gulped.

"Until then…" and she reached across the carriage bench and returned his kiss, feverishly, her own hand traveling up his thigh, lightly brushing his hardness and causing him to moan against her mouth, before he grabbed both of her wrists, held them with one hand behind her back, and pushed her back to pin her against the door, arms entwined behind her. The playing cards scattered all over the floor of the carriage as he scrambled to press into her, his teeth scraping against her neck and collarbone and every inch of bare flesh he could find, his free hand grabbing at a handful of her hair and tugging, not hard, but firmly.

She strangled as she attempted to hold back what he assumed would have been a loud, lengthy cry, and he got a hold of himself. Easing back from her, he chuckled as he saw the mess they'd created, and began to pick up cards and stack them neatly once again. "This is utter madness, Marianne."

"I think you are right." She laughed, too. "And to think, I used to believe that you were the most unruffled person I'd ever met."

"Until you came along and ruffled me."

"I can't believe that I could be so powerful."

"I can't believe I could ever cause you to make that noise you just made."

She giggled. They both fell into a fit of laughter, their excitement cooled for the time being, and Brandon dealt another hand. They played several before the carriage finally slowed, and they opened the curtains to see the bustling traffic of carriages and carts descending upon and exiting London. The streets became more and more cramped, the buildings taller and closer together, and soon they arrived in front of a large white edifice-their hotel.

Brandon had decided not to bother his servants with staffing Anders Grove for a single night's rest as a stopover en route to Dover, but still he said, "I do regret that I settled for an impersonal evening at another inn, rather than putting you up in the comfort of my own house. Though, truth be told, I'm thinking of selling Anders Grove now for something in St. James's."

"Whyever would you do that?" she asked, as he handed her down out of the carriage.

"I have a wife now, and I'm sure she'd like to be closer to the fashionable parts of town."

"You certainly can't think that I reflect fondly upon my time in St. James's with anything like a desire to relive it?" she asked wryly.

"No, but...I'm sure that at some point you may wish to come into Town for some shopping, or to see a play or a concert."

"Yes, perhaps. But it does not follow that I need to be in the thick of things all the time. I find that...that after all, I am a retiring sort of person."

"Three days as your husband and I've made you as dull as I am."

"Do you think it's dull if I'd prefer to spend an evening dining with my husband-perhaps playing the pianoforte, or taking a walk around the grounds-than to spend it at a fashionable house, dancing with strange men? I've had my fill of fashion, I find."

"No, you're...not dull at all. At least, the sort of evening you describe is one I'd vastly prefer, as well."

"There, then."

He kissed the nape of her neck as he walked her into the hotel. It was nearly seven, and his stomach, which hadn't had any nourishment than their luncheon, grumbled in protest of this fact. Checking in with the clerk, he asked: "The arrangements I made-are they in order?"

"All is in order, Colonel Brandon, as you've requested in your correspondence."

"What arrangements?" Marianne asked, her hand still slipped inside her husband's arm.

"Oh-I've taken the liberty of having some things delivered here to the hotel that I ordered the last time I was in Town. They'll be in our rooms. Why don't you go up and see what we have, while I have our luggage brought in and order up some supper."

Marianne disengaged herself from her husband, and did as she was asked. She availed herself of the offer of a ladies' maid, who would help her change from her traveling dress to something more presentable for supper. It was a very young girl no more than fourteen named Barbara who accompanied Marianne to the rooms she and her husband had reserved-a small sitting area with an elegant enamel-topped table and chairs, a bedroom with a great bed covered in red and gold brocade, and a dressing room complete with an ebony cheval mirror and an enormous claw-footed tub.

"Barbara, this is too much. Don't you think that all this is too much?" So many months of deprivation made Marianne see how extravagant these quarters were-much more extravagant than Delaford itself.

"Your husband must think very highly of you," the young girl said shyly, as Marianne laid her small bag down in the dressing room and allowed Barbara to begin unpinning her hair, sitting on a bench in front of the mirror.

"He...I believe that he does, yes," Marianne answered. _I'm not worth all this_ , she thought. The younger girl began to pin her hair back up more neatly, but Marianne said, "No-leave it down. He...he likes it down."

"Does he?" Barbara was wide eyed.

"Yes," Marianne found herself blushing.

"Is it nice? Being married, ma'am?"

"Why, yes, it's...it's very nice."

"My mother says it's...it's awfully hard."

Marianne looked at the girl concernedly.

"She says to find a bloke who will do what you want him to do-that if he takes charge, he'll run you around like a dog. Is that true?"

Marianne took the girl's hand. "You ought to find someone who will listen to you, yes-but someone who will treat you as...as an equal. If you can."

"An equal?"

"I believe so." Marianne looked at all her husband's money had purchased for them-the use of these beautiful rooms; the aid of the young girl next to her-and despaired of ever being truly worthy of his love and attention. Real equality would have sprung from being able to provide for her own care, not having to depend on him. Still-and this was crucial-not once since they'd become engaged had he made her feel as if she were contributing less than her fair share, as if he regretted his choice in her, though she'd been penniless and lacked a dowry to provide for her upkeep.

Barbara escaped into the bedroom to find a fresh gown for Marianne, and produced a sound of surprise at something she found there.

"What is it?"

"These parcels from the Colonel, that I was instructed to bring upstairs today-I think they are for you."

Marianne, clad in her stays and chemise, trod into the bedroom to see what the Colonel had sent. Three large parcels wrapped in paper and twine had sat on a table by the bedroom window, unassuming. Marianne pulled at the twine on the top parcel and tore open the paper, to find a bolt of the richest, softest muslin she'd ever touched-no, it was not a bolt, it was a ready-made dress, and she held it up to her body and found that it seemed as if it had been made specially for her. It was cream-coloured and covered in dark blue flowers, with long sleeves and the most beautiful buttons at the bodice, and there was a matching sash and slippers. Hurriedly, she unwrapped the other two parcels to find a stylish dark red gown, with sleeves that would reach her elbows, trimmed in white lace, and a dark green one the colour of oak leaves at the height of summer, simple, elegant, unadorned-perfect. A note was stashed in the bottom of the last parcel in her husband's hand-

"It seemed as if you'd need a few more gowns to complete your trousseau, as your older sister overheard you complaining to Margaret that you didn't want to look like a pauper. As I have said in the past, I know little about style, and perhaps care for it even less; I simply chose fabrics I thought would complement your hair and eyes. These were entrusted to someone I think to be a well-respected dressmaker. I obtained your measurements from your mother and had these ordered for you-I hope they are to your liking, although, of course, you may have them sent back if you dislike them. Say the word and you may have new ones that are of your own choosing. With all my love-CB"

Marianne bit her lip to stay the sob that collected in her throat. So thoughtful; so tender in his regard for her. This was an expensive gift, she knew, like all the things he'd given her; and yet, he'd never alluded to the expense; instead had tried to downplay the generosity of his gifts by suggesting she might possibly find them anything less than gorgeous. She could never repay him-all she could do was love him, which, she realized once again, she did, so completely-and not because of the favours he lavished upon her like a queen, but because he did so with no thought of receiving anything from her in return. How long would he have loved her in silence, she wondered, believing her to be indifferent, if she had not stepped in and insisted that he ask for her hand? How many times would he have lain with her, heaping pleasure upon pleasure on her love-wracked body, his own urgent desire for her merely an afterthought to him?

She remembered that moment in the parlor at Delaford when her love for him fell upon her so heavily and suddenly-he was ignorant of everything going on around him but his desire to make little Charity laugh. His own playing, so flawless, so fluent, so rife with equal parts skill and feeling, was nothing to him but a tool to bring about someone else's joy. This man she had chosen to marry had given away so much love and compassion to his fellow creatures over his seven-and-thirty years that it seemed as if the well would have run dry by now, as he had seen so little love in return to help him replenish it; but even the little thing that was Charity's laughter was enough to bolster his capacity for goodwill even more. And this was nothing next to the gallant, delicate way he had courted her, never really revealing the strength and depth of his feelings but in these near-invisible moments-letters explaining, in a shy and unassuming way, what he was thinking as he purchased something to make his future wife happy; inked declarations of love scrawled across her belly in sleep; a lesson in riding a horse astride because it was something in which she'd expressed a passing fancy; a profession that he treasured the book she'd given him as much as she'd treasured his gift of fine jewels; so many more little ways in which he demonstrated to her that he believed, with every ounce of his being, that _he_ was the lucky one.

No woman had ever been so fortunate in her choice of husband.

"Barbara?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"I won't need the stays, tonight. I'm a little tired of wearing them. Would you help me unlace them? And then, I think, the new white gown, don't you?"

"No stays?"

"No-I'm not leaving our chambers this evening. I won't need them."

"Yes, ma'am."

The younger girl unlaced her, buttoned her into the new gown (which fit oddly without the undergarment Marianne was so used to, but she didn't mind), and gave the new bride her privacy. Marianne looked herself up and down in the mirror. _He thinks I am beautiful_ , she smiled to realize. _He_ wants _me_.

Just then, the door creaked open. "Wife of mine? Are you hungry?"

"Famished," she called, and she emerged into the drawing room doorway, where her husband (bless him) had entered with a servant, the two of them busily laying out a fragrant meal of roast mutton and soup and bread and wine something else-oh, wonder of wonders, it was a pot of warm, sweet chocolate. "Many thanks," the Colonel said, as the other man bowed and left the room. "We will ring if you are needed." Brandon picked up a cup and filled it with wine, raising it to his lips, and turned to see his wife.

A slow, delighted smile spread over his face to see her there, hair down, wearing the frock he'd given her-looking as lovely as he'd ever seen her while clothed. He set down his glass, strode over to where she stood, and took her hand, kissing it. "The gown is not objectionable?" he asked.

"They are all beautiful. And too much for me. You should not have done this."

"If you like them, then of course I should have. It was meant as a Christmas gift."

"I don't know how to thank you."

"Perhaps you could eat something, so I don't have to watch you nearly waste away again? That would be a wonderful way to thank me."

"I suppose that could be arranged," she smiled.

He kissed her cheek before holding out the chair for her, and then sat opposite her. The food was good, made better by the fact that both of them were hungry, and it was plentiful enough to keep them occupied for a while, though both of them were constantly drawn to thinking about how deeply each longed to embrace the other upon the soft, inviting bed. They drank the hot spiced wine, Brandon reminding Marianne about the night she'd become so drunk and had kissed him after Elinor's wedding-and confessing to her about how much it had frightened him, to think that she'd been so close to him, and that he'd been so ready to take even further advantage of their mutual intoxication-how dearly he'd wanted to throw caution to the wind that night. Their second glass of wine each found Marianne telling Brandon about the day she'd realized her attraction to him, pouring over the poems written by Wordsworth and Coleridge and hoping that perhaps he might be as passionate, secretly, as the speakers of those beautiful poems. Midway into their third glass of wine, Marianne had accidentally flung her spoon across the room during a spirited reenactment of something from _Lyrical Ballads_ , causing her husband to dissolve into hearty laughter, and spoonless, she began to dip her finger into the still-warm pot of chocolate and lick sweet, warm, thick helpings of it off of her fingers, which, for some reason, made Brandon clear his throat and cease his laughing.

"Are you worried I'll get chocolate on my new gown?" she asked him coyly. "In which case you ought to help me take it off."

Brandon smirked, and helped her to her feet so he could unbutton her, the gown falling to the floor-and he found that she wore only a chemise underneath. The very chemise that had so entranced him two nights before.

"You like this one, I think?"

Brandon nodded dumbly. This little scrap of cotton and lace, paired with the soft-skinned, generously curved body underneath it, did more for him than could be managed by all of London's finest clothiers combined.

The alcohol was working in his system, making him not quite drunk, but just tipsy enough to feel confident in his abilities as a lover, and he growled hungrily as he spun her around in his arms, kicking the poor new frock to the side, and crushed her into him so he could kiss her thoroughly. He tasted the chocolate on her lips, but it wasn't enough. He dipped two of his own fingers into the pot so close at hand, and felt her mouth close around them as she sucked them clean. She closed her eyes as she did so, purring in satisfaction, and as he watched her he felt...dear God, he couldn't begin to describe what he felt. His heart raced to see her like this-his mind flashing with possibilities and unlikelihoods-and needless to say, he was fully aroused.

In Marianne's case, she was only just beginning to think of the myriad applications for chocolate beyond its intended purpose. She dipped her thumb in and smeared a dollop onto her husband's bottom lip, causing him to exhale in laughter as she leaned in to kiss it off of him, simultaneously untying his cravat and unbuttoning his waistcoat for him. He quickly shrugged out of his clothing as she undid the fastenings, gasping in shocked pleasure as she reached for the buttons of his trousers. She pulled at his garments until he was nearly free, pushing him into the chair and kneeling down in front of him to take off his boots, and then tugging at his open trousers around his hips to slide them off him, too.

"My goodness," the beautiful temptress who knelt at his feet murmured, and Brandon found himself incapable of speech as she took him in her hand and raised up to lean over him, her bare thigh brushing against his. "Am I the cause of this?" she asked, indicating his hardness.

"Are you planning on toying with me all evening, woman?" he croaked, his mouth suddenly dry despite all the wine he'd drunk.

"Hmm. Perhaps." She bit her bottom lip, the wheels turning in her head. Then she slid down into his lap and kissed him again, her fingers once more finding their way into the chocolate pot and tracing a geometric pattern with her sticky fingers onto his throat, lapping it up with tiny flicks of her tongue, finishing by sucking the chocolate slowly off her own fingers before dipping them into the pot again, this time creating a chocolatey smudge around his right nipple. Brandon bit back a howl as her searing tongue explored such a sensitive place, surprised but ultimately delighted at the sensation. But he grabbed her hand before she could do it again.

"What exactly is it you're doing, my love?" he whispered, kissing her chocolatey knuckles.

"Trying something. You said I could try things if I wanted to? If you're not uncomfortable?"

"Uncomfortable isn't-exactly-er-that's not the word I would use."

"Think of it as...as an exercise in patience," she whispered, giving him her brightest smile.

"Oh. Oh, fuck," he whispered, biting his lip. This was what he'd both feared and hoped. She was going to torture him the same way he'd tortured her-and it was going to be the most delicious experience of his life. If only he could keep himself from going insane during the process.

"Is this something you want?" she asked, an ounce of shyness creeping into her voice.

He nodded his head and closed his eyes.

"The whole...all of what you did to me? Would you...erm...would you like me to use my mouth to please you?"

His jaw clenched as his hands grasped the armrests of the chair. "It's not necessary."

"That's not what I asked, is it?"

His eyes opened a slit, and he smiled a little through his extreme agitation. "No. No it isn't."

"Do you want me to?"

"Only if...only if you want to," he managed. He knew his voice came out squeaky and nervous, but it was out of his hands. "I haven't ever...erm. That would be new."

She raised her eyebrows. "Really? Is it-is it wrong?"

"No, I just-I never wanted to ask," he replied, and then he felt his whole body come alive against her hand as she began to stroke him gently.

"But you want it."

"I think-I-"

"You're afraid to ask for it because you think I'll find it unpleasant?"

"Or that you'll think less of me," he admitted.

"I won't." She kissed him softly and continued to caress him, and just the thought of her putting her plump, full lips and hot tongue to work in a different way was enough to make him worry he wouldn't last long enough to find out what it would feel like.

"I hope I don't hurt you," she murmured as she pulled away.

"Again, I don't...I don't think that's going to be a problem." Breathing was becoming increasingly difficult-it would be extremely unmanly if he simply fainted.

Marianne smiled at her husband and stood up, taking the chocolate pot in her hand with as much thoughtfulness as she had held the pot of ink the night before. She took her time with him, tasting his skin mingled with the sweet, spicy flavour of the chocolate, nibbling and licking her way down his torso and up his thighs, so that when she came to trace her fingers along the length of his cock, his knuckles gripping the chair were completely white and he hardly dared to move an inch.

"You know," she murmured through her teeth as she bit at the flesh of his lower abdomen, "This is a whole lot of chocolate. I find… I find that I am a bit overwhelmed by chocolate."

In his madness, this was the most amusing thing he'd ever heard. He let out all the air in his lungs and began to cackle, and she raised an eyebrow at him, waited for his laughter to die down just a little before going on the offensive-she took him gently, tentatively, into her mouth, and it winded him, his laugh turning into an outcry.

Marianne was a little clumsy about it at first, but, guided by her husband's murmurs of wonder and bliss, she learned what pleased him fairly quickly. Soon, she felt his right hand come to rest delicately on the back of her head and his fingers lace through her hair, as his hips moved almost imperceptibly in time to her attentions, his left hand holding onto the armrest still as if bracing himself against something painful.

Brandon's eyes, which had, up until now, been closed tightly in appreciation of the things his wife was doing to him, opened with a start. "Love...love, you ought to stop now."

In answer she hummed a negative response, the reverberations making his situation even more dire.

"Marianne-it's-please-you should-oh, dear God...oh!"

She didn't stop.

Catching his breath in the aftermath, he looked down at where she sat at his feet-she'd rested her head on his knee, the sweet angel, and had reached up to take his hand. His arm lay possessively along her shoulders. He leaned forward and tipped her chin up so he could look her in the eye. Her bottom lip was between her teeth, and her eyes questioned him.

"Marianne, that-that was-" he began. All he could do was shake his head in disbelief.

"Was it good?"

"So good. So, so very good."

Once he had recovered, he asked, "You alright?" She nodded. "Good. Wrap your arms around my neck," he responded, and found the strength to stand, bending down to scoop her up into his arms and carry her the twelve or so steps into the bedroom and onto the bed, where he gently deposited her.

She giggled and kicked at the air with her feet as he carried her, asking, "what are you doing?"

"I want to return the favor. And you deserve a soft pillow and mattress beneath you while I do it, for you are a princess."

She squealed as he lay her down and opened herself to him, feeling his hands push the hem of her chemise upward so he could lower his mouth onto her. "Did you want to use the chocolate?" she asked weakly.

"You taste better than chocolate," came his reply, and he didn't say another word until she'd cried out once, and then once more, with release.

He kissed his way back up her body and came to lie next to her, pulling her spent form limply over to him so her head rested against his chest. "I like honeymoons," Marianne murmured sleepily.

"Mmmm," he rumbled in the affirmative. "Marianne?"

"Hmm?"

"Would you like a bath?"

She shivered. "Yes, I think so."

"Shall I ring for some hot water?"

"That would be very welcome," she answered, and she drowsed beneath the blankets as he got up, found his night shirt and his banyan, and called for a servant to bring what he requested.

Wide-eyed little Barbara brought a pitcher of hot water half as large as she was and began to fill the deep claw-footed tub in the dressing room, adding to it the cool water from a pitcher which stood on a stand nearby, and returned a few more times to complete the process. As soon as the young girl left at last, Brandon awakened his wife gently and asked if she were ready. She stripped the delectable garment over her head, giving Brandon a view, finally, of his wife's edibly curved body, and strode over to the tub to sink herself in. "It's big enough for you, too," she said, and Brandon found himself stripping out of his clothes and joining her. She picked up the bar of fine French soap and worked it into a lather, caressing her husband's chest, back, and arms, as she kissed him gently, and soon the soap was forgotten entirely as he felt himself swelling in response to her touch, allowing her to straddle him and pull him into her, the rhythm of their bodies causing water to splash around in waves. His hands holding onto her hips for dear life, he came once again, muffling his exclamation in the soft flesh of her breast.

Marianne disentangled herself from her husband and they began to wash in earnest, feeling true sleep calling out to them. Brandon helped her wash her long hair, careful not to pull, exhausted but still full of wonder at its beauty and richness, and at the fact that it was now _his_ to touch. The miracle of seeing the length to which her wet curls stretched-all the way down her smooth back-arrested his breath. He finished washing himself as she stepped out of the tub to dry off, and he joined her by the fireplace in the bedroom as she toweled at her hair. Eventually they found their way back into the bed, and collapsed into contented sleep.


	10. Ghost Man On Third

Chapter 10: "Ghost Man on Third," by Taking Back Sunday

Three nights of unrivaled joy and passion had witnessed the near-complete transformation of Christopher Brandon from a straight-laced, rational gentleman to a much baser creature, lost in a haze of physical sensation and reigned by the twinned chaotic powers of love and desire. But the cares of the world soon reasserted themselves into his head, if not his heart, and reminded him of his position and its attendant obligations, and the various aspects of his life that couldn't be ignored forever.

The next day followed much like that one: breakfast, long hours in a carriage, conversation, thinly veiled longing. The morning hours found Marianne reading in German to her husband and trying to translate what she'd read into English, with limited success; in the afternoon, though, they broke from this activity when it dawned on him: "How is your French?"

She answered him with a poorly-pronounced phrase in a schoolgirl dialect, and he cringed. "So, not very good," she admitted to him.

Suddenly, a familiar sense of unease began to well up inside of him. He shoved it down, looking into the beautiful eyes of the woman next to him. "It's alright. We'll practice."

They worked together for a while, conversing as they normally would but attempting to do so in French, Marianne stumbling frequently and her husband even more frequently stopping her to correct her pronunciation or her articulation. "I found German much easier, and I must admit, I neglected my French lessons when I was a girl-my head was always in the clouds," she said in English after a time. "Will I need much French when we reach your sister's house? They all speak perfectly good English, don't they?"

"Er-" Brandon considered. The last time he'd visited La Maison Tournesol, his brother-in-law's sweeping estate in Avignon, he hadn't spoken a word of English the entire time. Constance and Pierre had done their best to unsettle him by using his second language instead of his first, but unluckily for them, his French was nearly flawless and he'd kept up with them at every turn. It simply hadn't occurred to him that they might do the same thing this time, and that Marianne would be caught in the crossfire. "Perhaps we'd better practice. I'm not certain whether or not my brother-in-law is quite as comfortable with English as you are with French, so it's best to be safe, isn't it?"

They worked for the rest of the afternoon, Marianne pulling a book from a stack under the carriage bench and trying to translate it from English and into French with Brandon's help. More than once she became frustrated enough to consider tossing the book out the window, until Brandon soothed her and they took a respite.

That night when they reached the inn at Dover, they settled in for another large, hearty meal, both of them mentally exhausted but filled with the pent-up energy of hours in the carriage. They made love feverishly, Brandon whispering to her in English and French and German and Latin and Greek and even a little Arabic and Hindi, telling her in a hundred ways that he loved her, that he adored every inch of her body and every nuance of her heart. Marianne took it all in, trying to commit his words to memory as she had the pressure of his thighs next to her own, the tickle of his chest hair against her stomach, and the taste of the wine on his tongue.

Afterwards, Brandon dreamed of the past.

In his dream, he was a boy again, a boy of eighteen-even younger than Marianne. He felt once again the awkwardness of being tall and gangly, unsure of how to move in the world around him so as to attract appropriate attention, or to garner respect. It was past midnight, and he sat cross-legged in the observatory, the stars and planets visible from his father's telescope the last things on his mind as he listened to the girl's tear-filled speech.

"Chris-I simply can't. I'm too frightened. It wouldn't be proper-it wouldn't be right."

"Of course it-Eliza, have you heard a word I've said? What they're doing-they're the ones who aren't proper. They're the ones who are wrong."

"So what-we steal their money tonight? We steal their carriage at dawn? We run away? How would stealing make it better? Two wrongs don't make one right, Chris."

"But they shouldn't be able to do this in the first place. You shouldn't be a pawn they can move around with no thought to what you want. Don't you want-that is, I thought you wanted…"

"You, Chris-of course I do." Her ice-blue eyes softened with love as she looked up at him. He reached out for her then, his hands, big and awkward like the rest of him, clutching her to him so he could kiss her, running up and down her sides, thumbs just barely brushing the undersides of her breasts-it was all he dared do.

"You see? You see how we belong together?" he'd asked as he broke away. "You're the only girl I'll ever love."

"Chris-it just can't be. Can you see that? They've won." The resigned tone in her voice was even more heartbreaking than the fact that he was being forced apart from her.

"I'll keep fighting, Eliza. I'll never stop fighting for us."

"Oh, Chris." She knelt in front of him closer, and took his face in her small, delicate hands. "Just go away. Forget me. You'll find someone...someone so much more…"

"Never," he growled, angrily shoving her hands away and getting to his feet, facing the window. "Until death, Eliza. Until death do us part. In my heart, we are married, and that's the promise I make to my wife. Without you, I'll-I'll die."

"No, Chris, you mustn't say that," she cried out, scrambling to her feet and rushing to throw her arms around him from behind. She was so small, her head only came to his shoulder blades, and her arms landed around his lower abdomen-he pried them off, and stormed to the other side of the room.

They were silent for a long time, and Chris finally felt the tears begin to fall, the weight of his helplessness hitting him like a punch. He sobbed, sank to his knees, and buried his face in his hands. Soon Eliza was behind him again, touching his shoulders, his neck, and then kneeling in front of him and wrapping her arms around him and kissing him again through his tears. "I'm so sorry," he said, over and over, into her hair, her forehead, her mouth, the hollow of her throat.

Suddenly, Eliza's eyes lit up a fraction, though her face was no less distraught. "I know how we can take something away from them," she whispered.

He shook his head, not understanding.

"We can do...we can do that thing that married people do," she said, colouring as she said it. "You and me. Right here. Then we'll always know. We'll always know that it was us, together, first, before Charlie had me. Maybe...maybe we can even make a baby together."

Brandon felt himself turning redder than a beet at this. "Eliza," he whispered. "We can't. It's not...Christian."

"Chris, you said yourself-to you and me, it's like we're married already. I promised to love you and honour you forever, under the trees, in the presence of God. You promised the same."

"But-but I-" he sputtered. His heart was broken, and his mind was not able to think things through clearly-he knew he ought to take a beat and think about this-but God, he wanted to do the thing she asked for; his body began to betray a sign of his desire, and he jerked his hips away from her so she wouldn't notice. She noticed anyway, and reached a determined arm around his waist to pull him towards her again.

"It's our last chance to make something that lasts, Chris. Next week-next week I'll have to go and become his wife. Let's have tonight, for us."

For an eternity they knelt there, mere children being forced to make decisions and accept consequences that could have a lifetime of repercussions, and to deal with the mantle of responsibility and hardship that their families had thrust upon them without their consent. Eliza was just sixteen, but the finality of the resolution in her eyes and at her jawline made her look a few years older than the eighteen-year-old boy whose nervous, angry, and confused eyes watched her for cues about what to do and whether or not he was right in doing it.

Finally, he nodded and swallowed, a little bit terrified of what would happen next. Neither one was certain what to do, but Eliza took the lead, lying down on the floor of the observatory, and he came to lie on top of her, cushioning her head with his hand and kissing her. She began to writhe against him, her hips knowing their part to play despite her lack of experience, and it was maddening enough to cause him to get up off of her and begin to struggle with his clothing-until they heard the tell-tale sound of the doorknob clicking open.

At nineteen, Miss Constance Brandon had still been unmarried and living under her father's roof, and had never really liked Eliza Williams-whom most regarded as the prettier of the two-meandering about the grounds of Delaford and stealing the attention of all the gentlemen callers who might otherwise pay her attention. The sight she saw as she crept through the door of the observatory, having heard noises and fearing intruders-it was the kind of sight that might mean the ruination of Eliza's reputation forever. She was lying on the floor, Christopher in just an untucked shirt and half-laced breeches kneeling above her. It was incriminating. And Constance screamed bloody murder.

Soon half the house was rushing up to the observatory, Chris jerking the rest of his clothes back on, Eliza crying out desperately as Charles Brandon, Senior gripped her wrist hard enough to bruise it and forcing her ahead of him to her own quarters, where he shoved her in and locked the door to keep her there. For a minute or two, she beat against the door, crying out her apologies, until apparently she tired herself out and went to something resembling sleep. Meanwhile, Chris, who had followed on the heels of his father, confronted him.

"You...how could you?" Chris spat, so angry that he was barely able to articulate his thoughts.

"I?" the older man replied. "How could you? You know you almost jeopardized our family fortune with your little scene up there. Do you think your brother would have married her if she'd been spoiled by you first? What were you planning on doing-stealing away to Gretna Green? Or just having your nasty little way with her and then leaving everything else to chance?"

"I...I love her. I want to marry her. And yes-yes, I would have taken her away and married her and supported her on my own expense, and I never would have asked you to help us with one farthing. Because I love her with my whole heart. But Charlie? He doesn't even care for her. Where is Charlie now? Constance, you like to spy so much; do you even know where our dear elder brother could be?" Chris whipped around to face his older sister who was observing the proceedings. She drew back from his superior height and his wrath. "I'll tell you where he is. He's at the village inn, probably bedding his second or third whore of the week, wasting your precious _family fortune_ ," he sneered. "And yet, I want to offer Eliza a life of love, and you choose to marry her instead to that..that bastard?"

Charles Senior, though dwarfed by his son in height, was yet the stronger of the two, and in his rage, he seemed to grow a foot. He grabbed Chris by the collar of his shirt and yanked him to within an inch of his own face. His breath reeked of beer and the beef he'd eaten for dinner, and he loosed some spittle into his son's face as he said with a deadly calm, "Eliza is my ward. For all intents and purposes, she is my property, to be done with as I please. Do not challenge my judgment again. And do not ever, and I mean ever, call a member of this family a bastard again and call my honour into question. Or I will hurt you. Do you understand?" He didn't wait for an answer, but simply shoved his son away until he lost his balance and fell on his arse in the middle of the corridor. Just then, Charlie emerged into the same hallway and looked around, bleary-eyed and drunkenly swaying along.

"Looks like I missed some entertainment," he said, grinning as he braced himself against the wall. "Forgot how to walk, Chris?"

Chris felt all the anger and hate and misery of his situation boiling up inside him, and without a word, with barely a thought, he rose up from the ground and barrelled into his drunk older brother, leveling a blow at the young man's face that would have broken his nose if he hadn't swerved to avoid it, taking it on the cheek instead, and then Charlie lost his balance and fell to the floor. Chris stood over him and began to kick-anything he could find that was soft enough to hurt. Charlie howled in pain until Constance, who was now crying in earnest, and Charles Senior, still stoic and poised, each grabbed one of Chris's arms and tugged him away from the downed target of his attack. They managed to drag him, screaming and thrashing, to his own chambers down the hall, and Charles Senior locked him in, as he'd done for Eliza earlier.

"Son," Chris had heard his father call out to Charlie, from where he stood desperately trying to wrench his door back open. "Clean yourself up. Your wedding has been moved. You'll wed Eliza tomorrow at the church. And if you want to know why you're receiving such good news, ask your idiot brother."

Lower, meant only for Chris's ears, Charles Senior said through the door: "You have shamed me this night, boy. You make me wish I had never sired you."

"Fuck you," Chris spat, holding on to his knuckles which had been bruised by the impact with his brother's face.

"Big talk for a second son," the older man replied calmly. "You have nothing without me. And now, you're dead to me. As of this night, you are cut off. When I return from Eliza's wedding tomorrow, I expect you to be gone from Delaford. I honestly don't care where you go or what you do. Stop at Anders Grove in Greenwich if you must, but I plan to occupy it with Candace for the Season, so do not tarry there. Do not ask me for help. You have already proven that you are willing and ready to make your own way in the world despite me, so I expect you to do so."

Chris had listened to his father's footsteps receding towards his own chambers then, ear pressed to the door. There was nothing he could do now. His heart sank even further into the mire. He must part from Eliza. Probably forever. He must leave his home. A boyish part of him, the part of him that still yearned to be a good son, the part that had once idolized his father and wanted to be just like him someday, tried to convince him: _Apologize. Just back off from your foolish pride and you can be in his good graces again. Maybe… maybe somehow this can all work out for the best._

But as night gave way to morn, Chris, still locked in his room, realized that this was not about pride. This was about right and wrong. It was the first lesson of manhood, dawning now upon him-age doesn't determine wisdom, and sometimes parents don't know what's best for you. Sometimes the people you used to believe could do no wrong are nothing more than selfish, pathetic fools, and to bow down before them would be to spit in face of truth and righteousness.

Still-Eliza. Maybe he could save her.

He tried and tried to open his own door, even throwing caution to the wind and trying to physically break it down, but it was no use-the heavy oak was indestructible. Then he thought of the windows, which, he found, were shuttered, and barred, to add insult to injury. As a young man who needed to eat every few hours to keep up his strength in the service of his lengthening limbs and growing muscles, he found himself, after a sleepless night with no food following on the heels of a physical altercation, too weak to make any headway in his escape plan.

He could soon tell from the way the light slanted through the bars of his de facto cage that it was midmorning. Outside the window, sounds of a carriage preparing to take the family to church we audible. Chris could do nothing. Nothing. Nothing. He pressed his hand to the windowpane and wept, listening to the carriage drive away.

But a soothing, cool hand began to caress his back, which was bare suddenly, and the scent of fresh bread and raspberry jam assaulted his nostrils.

He blinked himself awake, saw that it was day outside, and noticed the aroma of coffee mixing with that of the bread and jam-and something else-a pleasant scent that filled him with a sense of peace, washing away the heartache from his dream-

"Good morning, dearest. You were having a nightmare, I think, just now."

The angel who spoke to him turned him onto his back to face her and helped prop pillows up behind him so he could hold a mug of coffee without spilling it. But before he could take a sip, he put it onto the table beside the bed and gathered Marianne up into his arms. He kissed her cheeks, her forehead, her hair, her lips. She kissed him back, stroking his head and whispering that it was alright now, that she was here. The tears from his dream threatened to manifest themselves into being in the real world, and he choked up.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked, not pressing, but simply offering.

He almost said no-but he had promised her that he would be honest with her. He said, "I dreamed about the night I lost Eliza."

"You mean, when she-when she passed away?" Marianne asked delicately, knowing he meant the elder of the two women with that name.

"No-the last night I saw her at Delaford. Before I joined the army. Before she was married." He told her some of the story, not repeating the horrible things his father had said to him, but telling enough to replicate his feelings of loss. "It's because we're so close...so close to seeing Constance. All of that...it's coming back to me now. All of those dark days."

"And you're afraid?" she asked.

"Yes." He took up the coffee again and sipped.

"Of what?"

"That-that I will lose...that Constance will say or do something...or I will say or do something...that will cause me to lose you, as well." He spoke into the coffee cup.

Marianne stood without speaking, went over to the small table, and cut two slices of bread. She had already dressed, and now slathered butter and jam on them, wrapped them in a napkin, and poured a second cup of coffee for herself, adding cream and sugar. And then she sat down once more at the bedside, offering one of the slices of bread to Christopher and biting off a corner of her own. She chewed and swallowed.

"I'm not going anywhere," she then said, meeting his eyes.

He reached out for her hand and kissed it.

Soon it was time to leave, and Brandon dressed, made certain everything was packed, and they boarded a coach to the docks, where their ferry waited for them. An ominously long ferry ride, followed by a couple of more travel days by coach, and more nightmares, found the Brandons, a few days before Christmas, standing on the doorstep of La Maison Tournesol, being shown in by a servant, and shaking hands with the most dour-looking couple that Marianne had ever seen.


	11. Down By The Water

Chapter 11: "Down by the Water," by The Decemberists

December 20, 1798

Dearest Elinor,

Now things have settled down, I find that I have a few minutes to write you. First of all, I do hope that you and Edward, and our dear little William, have the happiest of Christmases. I have been instructed to include in my letter that certain articles ought to have been delivered to you by the end of the day on Christmas Eve (though certainly you will not receive this for at least a week), and that with these articles, my husband sends his best regards. (It was all his doing, by way of a Christmas present; I had no knowledge of it until now.) The baskets are also for you to keep, so you need not worry about returning them to the mansion house. My husband thought that you may like them for all the sewing you have recently engaged in on behalf of the parish workhouse, and asks me to assure that we already have a whole room's worth of baskets.

The first several days of our journey were passed in pleasant enough comfort, though both my husband and I grew restless in the carriage, for the sheer fact that both of us tire of long periods of confinement, and far prefer to be active, or at least free to be so. But I find that I never grow tired of his company, or his conversation, and he has proven to be quite a loving and attentive travelling companion to me thus far. Indeed-it seems I am quite the fool in love with him, Elinor, after all my assertions that I would never admit the possibility of second attachments. And I now have plenteous evidence that he is just as strongly enamoured of me. (If I may conjecture, in fact, I feel a bit apprehensive that the same fate that befell _you_ when you returned from your wedding trip is likely to befall _me_ , as demonstrative as we have _both_ been in our adoration of one another; nothing has given me cause to believe anything so soon, but just to be sure, perhaps you should not yet put away all of little William's layette, in the off chance that it may be used again in the near future.) (I take it on trust that you will not show certain parts of this letter to anyone, least of all Edward, who is a man of the cloth and likely to take offence.)

And now it falls upon me to tell you of the reception we've had here since we arrived at Tournesol, the Colonel's brother-in-law's estate.

The property itself is beautiful, though more extravagant than would suit my own liking, and my newly acquired sister Constance has applied impeccable taste in fitting out each room according to the dictates of fashion.

We stepped into the lavish foyer and were shown into a drawing room nearly as large as the entirety of Barton Cottage's ground floor, and announced to a woman and man close to my husband's own age. Constance, the woman, looks a little like her brother: the same sandy hair; the same aquiline nose; the same advantages of height and slenderness-although I must say that there is something in my husband's eyes, a softness, that seems lacking in those of Mrs. Lapointe. Her husband, half a head shorter than she and quite a bit wider, with dark hair and a hawk-like eyes and nose, is called Pierre. Both of them seemed to greet the Colonel with some warmth, though it has been (admittedly) difficult for me to make out all that has been said, for you see, they conduct all their conversations in French, and as you probably remember, I spent all the time with our French tutor at Norland dreaming that he would take me out into the orchard and kiss me scandalously, instead of actually committing the language to memory-so I am rather lost, though the dear Colonel has tried to tutor me some during our journey.

I believe that the Colonel began by introducing me as his wife (and I still thrill to think of the possessive, proud way he took my hand in his arm as he did so), and then apologized for some past offence. It seems (according to Eliza) that, the last time the Lapointes had visited, some years ago, the Colonel and his sister quarreled. Can you imagine Colonel Brandon quarreling with anyone? However, it seems that it is true, for he has described to me certain details from his family life before joining the army that would shock you. It is all the more a testament to his character that he has risen above all that. At any rate, he apologized, and Constance smiled a kind smile and put several questions to me about my family, my education, and my interests, which I believe I answered with no errors. Pierre said very little, but nodded thoughtfully now and then, and soon we were met with the rest of the party.

It being Christmas, it is but a small family party. The Lapointes, of course, are hosting, and they are joined by their two eldest sons, Michel and Paul, who are home from school for their holiday. Michel is eighteen, and his brother Paul is sixteen. It is striking-Michel is very much like his father, but Paul is the very image of a portrait I saw of my husband when he was younger. The two could be father and son. The temperament of the boys is as yet difficult to determine, as they were nearly silent throughout supper, but it was hard to tell if they were surly or shy, or simply afraid to speak in front of their elders. (It is difficult for me to think of myself as an 'elder' for indeed Michel is so near my own age; yet now that I am a married woman I cannot help but think of myself as older in experience than my years would indicate, though perhaps that is a naive way of feeling.) The youngest child is a babe of three years, Sebastien, and we have not seen him yet.

After supper, the Colonel and Pierre remained in the dining room, as did Michel; Paul disappeared to his own chambers, apparently; and I was left to retire to the drawing room with Constance. She continued to pepper me with questions, but as they were more in-depth, I couldn't answer them so well in French, and made one or two embarrassing blunders-to my own mortification, I asked if it would be possible to revert to my own native tongue (which, I now recall, is also her own-perhaps it was presumptuous of her to assume my facility with a language not of my birth country, when she herself was perfectly capable of using English-I cannot help but think that perhaps it was a slight, though as you know, Elinor, I am working so very hard not to take umbrage at the slights of others the way I used to, and to be of a more docile disposition, rather than the headstrong girl who was so eager once to observe insult where there was none intended). She acquiesced. We began to speak of composers then, for I had told her that I liked music, and she asked if I had heard of several newer ones (whom I had not), and then proceeded to set me up at the pianoforte with new sheet music and-well, it felt as if she were testing me. She listened to me play a piece I told her I had never seen, and gave me numerous tutorials about how I could play it better, pointing out notes I missed, noticing flaws in my execution, and even finding fault with my posture. It was with great relief, as I was nearing tears from the distress of the past three-quarters of an hour, that I saw Pierre and Michel enter the drawing room with my husband in tow. We resumed French as the common tongue, and my husband sat by my side and took my hand, squeezing it from time to time whenever I glanced at him with an overwhelmed expression-which, I fear, was all too frequently.

At last we excused ourselves and were shown to our chambers. This too was surprising: they were not adjoining, and were, in fact, on opposite ends of a hallway in the guest wing. My husband and I are accustomed after the past week to sharing quarters, and it seemed odd that we should be parted thus. He suggested once the servant left us, therefore, that I share his own room, but I reminded him that we were guests, and that perhaps his sister was squeamish about the thought of a newlywed couple taking advantage of the mutual privacy afforded by a shared room. He allowed for his sister's presumed discomfort (and my own; for the last thing I wanted to do before this formidable woman was embarrass myself), and now I am here, alone, on a cold winter's night, and regretting my decision, for I find that my husband (euphemisms aside) is quite adept at keeping me warm, and that I enjoy having a bedfellow again, having missed _your_ company, dear sister, quite apart from the new intimacies that my husband and I can now share. But, I shall resign myself to a cold few evenings, and long for the day when we are safely bundled into yet more carriages and trouncing across the Alps, through Italy and Switzerland, and finally to our farthest stop in Vienna. The adventurous spirit has not quite left me, despite all my maturation, and I find that I am quite excited to begin the next stage of our expedition.

Please send any replies to the hotel in Vienna, for which we provided you contact information. I regret that I won't hear about your first Christmas as parents of a wiggling babe until then, but I do so long for the time when I may; until then, I remain

Your devoted sister

Mrs. Brandon!

25 December, 1798

My dear Eliza,

After five days spent among these people, it is my honour and privilege to allow you to bask in the glory of your own correctness. You told me so. I ought to have insisted upon it. I ought to have become the sort of domineering husband who denies his wife things she desires with no thought, for it seems that by allowing her to have her way in this detour to Avignon, she has become miserable and wretched, and now will no longer love me anyway.

The first night we were here, Constance tried. I could tell she was trying, because she was actually smiling, and I felt as though perhaps she had changed for the better-that age, and motherhood, and the long-suffering state of being married to one of the most calculating and greedy men I have the dishonour of calling an acquaintance, much less a distant relation, would have softened her into something like a true sister. But it was clear from minutes into the evening that it was not the case. She did direct questions to Marianne and take an interest in her, but was completely insensitive to the fact that Marianne's French was weak (it is not Marianne's fault entirely, for you know, having heard me discuss it, how methodically and ruthlessly my father drilled us all in the languages of the Continent; Constance and I had always possessed a gift for languages that it seems my wife does not share, and it is no real discredit to her, for I am still convinced that she is near-perfect in every other way that I have observed). Then, she took it upon herself to tutor Marianne in the correct way to play some fashionable new songs on the pianoforte (and you have of course heard Marianne play-it is not with merely the fondness of a husband, but the finely-tuned ear of an aficionado that I say that Marianne's playing is qualitatively superior to Constance's in every way); and finally, the greatest slight of the evening was in the revelation that we were to sleep in separate chambers, it having all been arranged ahead of time, presumably, to provide the greatest possible affront to me, and to my wife, whom Constance is determined not to like under any circumstances.

The worst of it is that I can feel the old anger coming back. My hackles are raised. I grow irritated easily, and it is all I can do to bite my tongue. Pierre is even more repellent to me than I remember from the last time I saw him. Just yesterday, as we've had a reprieve from the incessant snow flurries, he took me down to the carriage house and showed me his new toy-a carriage, painted a shiny black with gold trim, small and aerodynamic and with a new steering mechanism that he spent an inordinate amount of time explaining to me (and I will not lie-I did salivate; I am not immune to the beauty of a finely-tuned machine, even if it is owned by such a man). While there, he outlined some of his plans for me-he has just gone in on a plantation in Haiti, you see, and wanted my advice, as I had been in India for so many years, on the best methods of "keeping the natives properly in line" so as not to harm his business interests. I demurred as much as possible-my own opinions about the treatment of natives being well-known to you, but not desiring of becoming ensconced in a political debate so close to Christmas, and in the current delicate situation with my wife already being poked and prodded like a new horse, metaphorically speaking, by my disagreeable sister.

And then he said the thing that really rankled me: "Though, in the event that I am able to inherit Delaford, in addition to my house in Devonshire, perhaps I will give up my interests in the Caribbean; with two properties in England as well as this house, I will have a much more stable income."

So-you see? He is still, even in the face of my marriage, certain that he will be named heir. Or at least, he is hopeful-and to ensure this, he has made my wife feel like a stranger, a foreigner, in her own sister-in-law's home, and he has made it clear what he thinks of our engaging in any act that might lead to procreation, by boarding us separately. It is my belief that these little things are deliberate, though perhaps I am making unfair assumptions, and Pierre and Constance are simply _unconsciously_ callous and unwelcoming.

I fear that you will think me extremely familiar to express these things to you, Eliza, but I find that now you have become as much a friend to me as a daughter, and I know not to whom else I can confess my feelings and my history, especially as it concerns my wife, for you know all that relates to her, how I came to love her, how desperately I longed for her, and my joy now that I have married her. But I fear that my love for her, like so much else, has become corrupted in the face of Constance and Pierre, and their conniving ways.

Last night, the memory of Pierre's words still fresh in my mind, I took myself to my room after dinner and imbibed some brandy to gather my courage, and then-again, I hate to confess this to you, but I know not to whom else I can turn-I knocked on my wife's door and begged entrance. I found her weeping, and though she allowed me in, I was disappointed that she would not let me stay. She had been crying, she said, because she was emotionally drained, now that it neared her special time of the month (I did not see fit to pry, as I never do in these things); but I could sense that something else was amiss. And I? I left her to her tears, and returned to my own room. I admit that I was angry at her because I felt, in my frustration, that she pushed me away after all that we had shared; I also grew flummoxed, and this is where I find myself reeling with self-loathing, because at that moment I had primarily wanted to be near her, not to comfort her, or even to be comforted by her, but because I wanted to thwart my brother-in-law's desire to inherit Delaford by ensuring that there would be an heir of my own making, instead.

This morning I have confessed all to Marianne-what my wishes were, and the reason I failed to be a proper comfort to her-and she responded to me with silence. It is our first Christmas together, and we are, apparently, in the midst of a quarrel, though she has not told me how she is feeling or why, precisely, she is angry, or even if I am the chief recipient of this anger.

You look up to me as a hero, I know, but I want to show you these moments of weakness so that you do not idolise me. I am no hero; I make the same mistakes as most men, most notably the mistakes of failure to communicate my true wishes and desires as clearly as I ought, and failure to understand the wishes and desires of others, even sometimes those most dear to me. I have prided myself in the past of being mindful of others' feelings, and now my own wife has shown me that my pride here is misplaced.

For what it is worth, happy Christmas, though I know you will not receive this letter for some weeks. I hope the parcels I have sent by way of my staff have reached you without harm. I know how much you like ham and I think I remember Charity loving fig preserves and chocolates. The new dolly is to be named whatever Charity likes, and is to be invited to our next tea party with Raja, if Charity and her friends will all accept the invitation.

Wearily, and a little desperately, I offer you my sincere friendship and love, and ask that you pray for a swift end to these joyless days in France.

CB


	12. When You Were Young

Chapter 12: "When You Were Young," by The Killers

December 27, 1798

Dear Eliza,

I am near-certain that this letter will reach you at the same time as the one I put out with the family post two days ago, and I do not think, now, that I ought to have sent that one; but as I am too proud to ask for the letter back, though it will probably not go out until later today, I feel that I must write an addition-

Do not worry. All is well. I have not the time to tell you how, in more details, in a letter, for we ride out in less than an hour, but rest assured that I will tell you all upon our return-and know that my wife is quite the hero of the piece. You will have an extremely diverting story to look forward to as soon as I have more time to write it down.

With love,

CB

In the wake of her conversation with her husband, Marianne made her way down to breakfast in the wee hours of Christmas morning. If nothing else, her French was greatly improving in the past few days of near-total immersion. The chambermaid that Constance had relinquished for her use was incapable of speaking any English, so the interchange of questions and requests between the two women was more of a gentle way for Marianne to practice her new language than any harsh expectations put to her by Constance and her family.

Marianne went over the particulars of the past few days in her head, leading up to the conversation she'd just had with her husband.

After the awkward way the visit had begun, Marianne had tried very hard to keep her head down, saying little, playing less, and smiling as much as possible. Soon, however, she got the impression that Constance and Pierre thought of her as a simpleton. Pierre made little conversation with her at all, but when he did, he made sure to speak slowly. Michel, who joined his family for most of their time together, fell to doing the same; but it was with great chagrin that Marianne realized her error in underestimating their similarities in age and thinking of herself as the demonstrably older and more mature one of the two, for Michel seemed to take a certain liking to her, a liking that her husband (preoccupied as he was with keeping up with Pierre's conversation about God knew what) likely failed to notice; he sat immediately next to her whenever he could, and gave her little compliments that, individually, would have been meaningless, but taken together indicated that he was trying in his immature way to flirt with her. Aghast, she found herself looking up at her husband for assistance, but he was always to be found deep in concentration as he spoke with his family members, as if they took all of his mental effort.

Last night, Marianne had reached a breaking point. Constance had begun to play at the pianoforte, and Michel had scooped her up for a dance, her husband nowhere in sight-he and Pierre had gone off somewhere to look at carriages-and he had monopolized her time horribly. This time, he put to her many questions about Delaford, expressing that he had longed to see it since the last time his parents had made for Whitwell for a summer and broke for Easter at the Colonel's home. He had ever been told it was to one day be his own rightful home, and it would be so nice to have an opportunity to come see it soon, and (here's where he leered at her) to _enjoy any of the pleasures it might offer_.

Shuddering, but trying to smile politely, she excused herself from dancing, claiming a headache, and found her way to her own chambers-but first she was met with Paul on the steps, presumably on his way to the kitchens for an after-dinner snack. She smiled at him and wished him good evening, but found him troubled. In a spur of sudden goodwill to find someone who didn't look at her like a vulture contemplating a sickly cow, she offered to sit with him and give him company while he ate, though she admitted her French was poor. He, bless him, asked instead if he could speak with her in English, for he needed the practice! She felt relieved, and acquiesced.

She asked him about his studies, for it seemed (the quill tucked behind his ear and the sheafs of paper hanging out of his pocket and the book under his arm providing clues) that these occupied his attention even during his holiday. She learned: he was just in the middle of his first year at university, which his father had encouraged him to attend early. He planned to become a surgeon, a difficult career, and in order to do so, he needed to earn top marks in all of his courses; hence his preoccupation with scholarly pursuits even on Christmas; and as it was, he was falling a bit behind in the study of chemistry, and his father was adamant that he caught up before being reunited with his classmates. It was very important to him, as well as his father, that he do well, for he was not to inherit much, being a second son; in the eventuality that he would not be able to marry rich and retain the status of a gentleman, he would need a lucrative profession to sustain him. But more importantly, he said with shining eyes, he secretly loved the idea of becoming a doctor. It seemed to fill him with quiet joy and pride to think of himself wielding the tools of his trade in an effort to save lives and make new advances in the field.

Marianne was quite impressed by the persistence and good-natured seriousness of this young man, who reminded her more and more of her husband. She found herself telling him with relative ease about her own family, and the hardships that could befall one when finances are not what they ought to be.

"Ah, yes," Paul had said artlessly, "my mother said something of this yesterday-that you were-what is the word she used-destitute? I felt that you may understand me when she said this. Mother said you were so poor that it was necessary for you to turn to my uncle in a time of need, and I knew it must be much like me, turning to my studies to give me a life of safety and security when my own family cannot promise them. I felt myself drawn to you as a friend then, and wished to know you better," he finished.

Marianne could barely speak, and she smiled, nodded, and found an excuse to go up to her room at last. Destitute? Turning to his uncle in a time of need? Did these people assume that she was nothing more than a seductress taking advantage of Christopher's money for her own gain? And for _her_ , of all people, to be thus accused; _she_ , who had time and time again ridiculed the notion of marrying for anything other than the deepest regard?

Her tears began in earnest at the accumulation of woes-for four days she had taken the little digs and the light air of snobbery of the Lapointes in stride, and had bitten her tongue each time. She was trying so desperately not to be impulsive, not to be outspoken, not to embarrass her husband or alienate him from his family, with whom he seemed to finally be getting along, even if only a little bit. And now this fresh insult, delivered so unknowingly-the presumption that she had married for money! She combined this new knowledge with what Michel had said earlier-that he was looking forward to visiting Delaford, which he presumed to be his future home! The Lapointes assumed that her marriage was loveless and would be fruitless as a result, and were doing all they could to drive a wedge between her and her husband while they were here to ensure it remained safely within their grasp!

At the very moment when she realized this, she heard a knock at her bedroom door-

"Marianne-Marianne, will you open up for me?"

She'd let her husband in, and realized pretty quickly that he was eager for her, but in the mood she was in, she was not inclined to do anything but stew in her own frustration. Her tears were renewed upon seeing his disappointment as he left her, and she felt her heart sink at the thought that it seemed she was incapable of making anyone happy, even her beloved. She fell into the cold bed and tossed and turned through the night.

In the morning, Christopher had knocked again. She let him in.

"My love, I-I'm sorry. I don't-I must confess, I don't know what came over me last night. I never meant to make you cry."

"I was crying already before you came in."

"Yes, but I-I made you cry even harder than before. I know this. I-I was not in the right frame of mind. I thought that perhaps if I made love to you last night it would help me to-to feel-less powerless here."

She could do nothing but stare at him. She'd thought him relieved, finally overcoming the near-estrangement of his family and getting to know them more closely, but now she saw that he was just as miserable as she was.

He told her, "Do you know that Pierre and Constance still think they are going to be the heirs of Delaford? They think-they think they have a chance to do it. For a minute, last night-and I can promise you, it was only a minute, and no longer-I wished to prove them wrong. I wished to give you a child, so they would close their damned mouths about it. I was not myself. I have told you-I know I expressed this to you before, but it is all the clearer to me now-my family has a very profound effect on me. But I let them," he rambled, "I allow them to change my outlook, my behaviour. I allowed them to come between us. I am-I am weak, when I am with them. And Constance knows it. I cannot say what I really wish to say, because of propriety, and she has taken every liberty with that fact."

Marianne could say nothing. The wheels were turning in her head. After a minute sitting there on her bed, looking at her, he took his leave, apologetic once again.

But in the interim, Marianne had developed a plan.

Today she wore the green gown her husband had purchased for her, feeling that it leant her a special gravitas and maturity. She entered the breakfast room with her shoulders back and a winsome smile on her face. "Good morning, Pierre, Constance, Michel, Paul… and an especially good morning to you, my dear Christopher," she said-in perfectly enunciated English-not waiting to be addressed first. "What plans are in store for us today, as it is Christmas? Shall we ride together to church? Is there anything special planned for our luncheon? I quite liked those cakes from the other night." She sat down unceremoniously between Christopher and Paul and helped her plate. "Oh, and this bread is excellent! Your cook must be complimented. Each dish, even the simplest, seems to be a delicacy. I must confess, it is easy to find ways to keep up my strength, which you know, I must do, if I am to be the mistress of a family someday soon. Oh, Christopher, wouldn't it be wonderful? Just think-this time next year, perhaps we will have our own little family at Christmas! Sister Constance, I know that you must never have known anything like the joy of holding your firstborn babe, little Michel, in your arms, particularly at Christmas! And to have such fine young men now! Brother Pierre, you must be so proud of Paul, especially-to have worked so hard, and a university man, now, at sixteen! What a fine thing!"

She paused, and saw the mouths of most around her nearly agape. "Little" Michel cringed.

"Yes," Pierre managed. "It is a fine thing."

Marianne continued. "I do hope we can see little Sebastien today-I feel quite disappointed that he has been ill since our visit began, for l love children so. I believe the Colonel, my husband, has not told you anything of little William-my sister's child! Elinor is married to the parson at Delaford, and together they have the sweetest little boy-and it is quite wonderful to know that we shall be able to dine there whenever we like, and to have them dine with us; for you know that, though we Dashwood girls have not had much money of late, we have always been so close, and it pains us to be apart from one another. Money isn't everything, you know, when you have good friends and family by your side! But it will, I think, be a true delight for our own children to grow up so close to William and whatever siblings my sister and brother-in-law may give him. Oh, and he shall be close to little Charity as well!" Brandon took her hand and gripped it, but she pressed on.

"Has my husband told you of his ward's beautiful child? Charity is the most loving and intelligent girl of two that I have ever seen, and my husband truly dotes on her. And Eliza is doing well-although I am sure you have already pressed my husband for details concerning her, since she is, after all, your own family. I have quite readily come to think of Eliza as an intimate friend, and look forward to seeing her again, so we can pass on the news of how you all are faring. I am certain that she is eager to hear news of you, for she is a very solicitous person in the wake of all the hardship she has faced."

Jaws clenched all around the table. But Marianne blithely picked up a piece of bacon. "Do you know that bacon is my favourite food? It is so delicious, and this bacon in particular. French livestock must be fed with pure ambrosia to produce such a fine product."

The rest of the party was speechless, but-here was the miracle-after a minute, her husband, still holding her hand for dear life, said, "Yes. It is quite good bacon."

And some kind of invisible spell was suddenly broken. The family spent the rest of the meal chatting in a fashion that was almost amiable, actually alternating between English and French, though Pierre's English, as Christopher had predicted, was almost as bad as Marianne's French. They did indeed go to church-and Marianne felt like a spectator at a circus, for the Lapointes were Catholics, and she had never seen such pageantry. Afterwards, at luncheon, she even made conversation with Michel, who of all things was studying divinity! She realized as she put her questions to him that, though he had adopted a knowing air, he was quite put out by some of her questions, which forced him into a deeper level of theological insight than was strictly comfortable for him. She then asked Constance to show her to the library, and began a discussion of literature, proving once and for all that, though she was not as adept at French as she would like, she was no fool.

That night after gifts and dinner (she and her husband had been given an admittedly exquisite pair of candlesticks, as a belated wedding present, and a Christmas gift of a fine Oriental rug; Christopher had brought for them a fine ivory chess set), they all withdrew as one family to the drawing room, and since it had been days since he'd heard her play, Brandon asked the room if anyone would object. Since breakfast, he'd been looking at his wife with nothing but wonder etched onto his face, realizing, she knew, what she was doing. It was for her candour and openness that he loved her, she decided; so candid and open she would be, all day. If she seemed forward or impertinent to her hosts, it was to their discredit that they did not value the same things she did; and she was not married to them, anyway. She threw Brandon a grin, and sat down on the bench to play two of his favourite pieces, while young Paul turned pages for her. Then she stood to allow someone else to play, for she did not wish to make a spectacle of herself.

At last, little Sebastien was shown into the room, still showing evidence of the sniffles, but mostly appearing as cheerful and curious as a toddler ought to. He immediately gravitated to the unfamiliar face of Marianne, who gleefully sank to the floor and began to fawn over him. "What a beautiful child," she said more than once in French, and Constance nodded her thanks to Marianne with a thoughtful look on her face.

That night, Marianne donned her night dress and her dressing gown, picked up the candle at her bedside table, lit it at the fireplace, and exited her chamber. She walked down the hall to her husband's room and knocked. When he opened the door, dressed in his own night clothes, he let her in wordlessly, took the candle from her hands, and set it down on the nightstand.

"Marianne, you-you have been magnificent today," he said humbly. "I must admit that I underestimated you. I perhaps gave you reason to believe, before we arrived here, that my sister would dominate you in some way-and I admit that I feared it-but today, you have shown-"

"Shut up, Colonel." And she wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders and pulled him down to her mouth, where he had no choice, really, but to return the kiss she offered, to revel in the taste of plums on her tongue; no other option, really, but to lift her up by her hips and set her on top of the mirrored dressing table; to ease her gown up over her soft thighs; to find her sex with his practiced fingers and rejoice in the way she cried out in pleasure; to lean her back against the mirror as he entered her, so desperate for her after days of being deprived of her company in this way; to catch, in the same mirror, the expression on his own face, some odd blend of feral and content, as he drove into her, drawing more cries from her sweet lips with each stroke; and no possible alternative course than to call on God's mercy as he came inside of her-still feeling the pressure of her nails digging into his back and her teeth biting into his collarbone as his need was finally sated.

He leaned over her afterwards, bracing himself with each hand placed on the table top on either side of her, breathing heavier than a sprinter.

"Thank you," he said.

"Oh, Christopher. I was just as desperate for that as you were."

"No, not-I mean, yes, thank you for that, too-obviously, that was quite-I'm always grateful for that. But thank you for today. Thank you for being Marianne. My Marianne. My brilliant, dauntless, wonderful, beautiful Marianne, unabashed even by the Brandons and their ilk."

"Did you see the looks on their faces?" They began to laugh and relive the memories of the past few days as they straightened out their night clothes, sat down next to each other on the bed, and then found themselves lying down on the pillows as they talked.

Soon Brandon said, "We leave early in the morning for Genoa. You'd best go back to bed."

"I'm not leaving your bed tonight, Christopher. Not after all this. I want you with me."

His heart pounded in his chest to hear this. "You sure?"

She nodded, lay her head against his chest, and went to sleep.

The next morning, as they prepared to take the Lapointe's carriage to the nearest post hotel, Marianne was stopped in the entranceway-by Constance herself.

The older woman, wrapped in an elegant woolen shawl, took Marianne's hand in hers. Marianne looked up at her with some curiosity.

"Madame, I thank you so much for your hospitality."

"And I-my new sister-I find that I must apologize to you. For I have perhaps not been as hospitable as I ought to have been."

"Oh, Constance-do not-" Marianne reddened, thinking perhaps the woman had somehow divined her conversation with her husband the night before, or had eavesdropped, and knew that Marianne had not been at all happy during her stay.

But Constance pressed on. "My brother and I have never really seen eye to eye. And he-being the youngest-always seemed impetuous to me. When I heard that he would marry, and someone so young, I thought him a fool. And I-well, I thought he was seeking to marry merely so that he could disinherit us, to produce an heir after all these long years out of spite, simply so that my sons would be cheated out of Delaford. I am a mother, Marianne, and you do not know yet but-yes, perhaps someday soon you will-a mother will do anything, believe anything, in the interests of her children."

Marianne nodded, slowly beginning to understand.

"But you-the more I see of you, the more you remind me of someone else. I assume you are familiar with the sad tale of our cousin Eliza, the mother of the woman to whom you alluded yesterday? Yes. Well. She was spirited, too, like you; and she was lovely, like you; and it has taken me a very long time to understand this, but: he truly did love her. And the actions of my father and elder brother in keeping them apart were wrong. And as I see so much of her candour in you, though you do not resemble one another physically at all-I can see that his heart is truly yours, and that you have earned it fairly.

You see, sister Marianne-In everything, I have loved my little brother, and tried to make him see reason in matters of the family; but when those matters trumped matters of the heart, he was always wont to let his heart win. And perhaps he was right. I do not know. But I do know that there is a strength in you that I admire, and that I can tell he must admire as well."

"I-er-I thank you," Marianne answered, unsure.

"I hope that you will not be too put off by our strange ways to allow us to come and visit you some time when we make for Whitwell of a summer."

"No, not-not at all," Marianne answered, too shocked to find other words.

She took her leave then, meeting her husband in the carriage. Feebly, they waved until they were out of sight, and long after they were out of earshot, she repeated Constance's words to her. "So kind of her to say those things," she breathed.

"Perhaps. Or perhaps she was simply using your own weapon of open communication against you."

"Oh, Christopher. Is it too much to hope that your own sister could have your best interests at heart?"

"I have been...burned by her, Marianne. But if you wish it, I will try to look for ways in which I may have misjudged her."

"I love you, and I want you to be happy in your family relations," she said, putting her hand on his arm.

"I am-I am deliriously happy with the family that I have chosen. John is my brother, as is Edward, and now Elinor is my sister. Charity and Eliza are wards to me, and I love them with all the tenderness of a father. And now, I have you. And you mean more to me than anyone. It is enough, Marianne. I am a happy man, with a family whom I love. And I love them no less because there is little if any blood kinship between us."

She took his words into consideration and finally accepted them.

"I think...I think our honeymoon is now officially beginning, isn't it?"

He looked at her thoughtfully. "Oh, yes. I suppose it is, isn't it?"

She smiled. "Would that make tonight our first real night together as man and wife?"

"I don't know. I don't want to compromise your innocence, my love. Are you sure you're ready for me?"

"Oh, yes. But are you certain that you're ready for me?"

As they passed across the border into Italy and careened toward their hotel, it was with all the flirtatious joy and lust that they had missed in Avignon, and their night together was as fulfilling and wild as either could have wished.


	13. Waiting On an Angel

"Waiting On an Angel," by Ben Harper

Note to readers: Sorry that it has been FOREVER since I have posted. I had meant to finish this a month ago, but life got a little complicated. One more short chapter to go, and I'm starting on it today. Should be finished within a day or two. There WILL be a sequel, still have to find out what happens to Margaret, whether or not Constance makes a reappearance and whether she will be nice, and, of course, how the Brandons' family grows… Bear with me. It might take a while, but it will happen!

"It's not...scandalous, is it?" Marianne asked.

"I think...I think Mrs. Jennings might have a heart attack if she saw it. And while I should not wish that on her… I must admit, there is a certain appeal…" Brandon trailed off thoughtfully.

The pair of them stood on the outskirts of the ballroom in Vienna, their new friends, the Crofts, who had made their acquaintance as they were staying in the same hotel. Mrs. Croft's brother Frederick (the same young man whom Brandon had once encountered at his club), who had just arrived to Vienna to stay with his relations as their guest, had happened to see Brandon as the honeymooning couple made their way down to supper a couple of nights before, reintroduced himself as a newly minted Navy captain, and there followed a flurry of introductions to his sister Sophy and her husband, who was an admiral. Sophy, it seemed, was not much older than Marianne herself, and Admiral Croft was of an age with Christopher Brandon. The similarities in age as well as temperament did not go unnoticed, and soon the pair of couples were enjoying all the society that late December in a cold country could provide. They had accepted the Crofts' invitation to a private assembly at the home of an English expatriot. Now the four of them stood staring at the spectacle before them-as the band played, couples danced together, partnered so close it was very nearly obscene, and created patterns of rotation and revolution around the dance floor resembling the movement of the planets around the sun. New, a little torrid, and oddly fascinating, Brandon thought.

Just then, the music ended and Captain Wentworth thanked his partner, making his way back to his sister and friends. He was flushed with exertion, and Brandon thought how much better the gentleman looked than the last time they'd met. So he was not really surprised when the captain offered Marianne his hand and gestured to her that he might teach her this new waltz. She looked up at Brandon, whose jealous twinge only lasted a moment before he saw the mirthful wink she gave him, and she spun away. He rested an elbow on the punch table, laughing quietly to himself as he watched his wife accidentally step on her partner's toes in her clumsy effort to learn.

As he watched the captain lift his arm for Marianne to pass under, he felt the small hand of Sophy Croft rest on his forearm. "Nothing to worry about, Colonel. His heart is taken," Sophy said, a little sadly, gesturing in the direction of her brother.

"Ah, yes. I remember him mentioning something of the sort when I met him. Sorry state of affairs, that. And he's still intent on that lady or no one, after all this time?" Brandon asked.

"Always, I think," Sophy murmured into her punch. "Ah, Mr. Rochester! I did not expect to see you here!"

A tall, formidable man with a dark complexion strode up to shake hands with Admiral Croft, then brought Sophy's up to his lips. He turned what seemed like a predatory gaze on Brandon, who smiled stiffly at him.

"Colonel Christopher Brandon, British East India Company, of Delaford Hall in Dorsetshire-may I introduce you to our friend, Mr. Edward Fairfax Rochester, of Thornfield in Yorkshire."

The two men sized each other up, and something was found wanting in each. They made the silent agreement to be civil. Brandon couldn't put his finger on exactly what it was that bothered him about his new conversant, but it was something very subtle. The Crofts, too, seemed to hold him at arm's length, keeping him in their acquaintance, he supposed, for the primary reason that he was a fellow countryman, a rarity in their travels, for the pair of them, it had been revealed, were traversing the Empire together, or nearly, Sophy a fixture on his ship. But countryman or not, Brandon couldn't help but be discomfited when the Crofts were drawn aside by another couple whom they knew, and he was left alone with Rochester.

"Don't dance much either?" the other man commented, taking a flask out of his waistcoat pocket and imbibing. "I hate it, myself."

"Dancing?" Brandon replied politely. "I don't mind it, if the right partner can be found, I suppose."

"Right you are, there," Rochester answered. "That one, for instance," he gestured to a blonde girl, probably younger than Marianne and very lively looking. "She looks like she'd keep you on your toes, doesn't she?"

Brandon cleared his throat, took another sip of punch, and prayed for a rescue. He was unlucky. At just that moment, Marianne wheeled back around, quick learner that she was at new dances, fully having mastered this new one, laughing in surprise at how quickly she whirled and glided. Her eyes met her husband's as she passed, and the smile of glee she gave him, her face transformed by the joy of the dance, made his heart skip a beat. This smile did not go unnoticed by his new friend, either. "Or her," Rochester noted thoughtfully. "That tallish redhead. Don't think I've seen curls like that before. Or curves like that."

Alarmed, Brandon turned sharply towards Rochester. "Careful, man. One of these days you're going to find yourself talking of...dancing...with someone's wife."

Taking another sip from his flask, Rochester purred, "Never stopped me before."

Unconsciously, Brandon cracked his knuckles.

Just then, the music ended. The young captain, bowing, released his beautiful partner, who made her way back to her friends with such speed that Brandon did not have time to respond to Rochester's impertinence. Sophy reached out to take her hands, and began introductions. "Mr. Edward Fairfax Rochester, this is our dear Colonel's new wife, Mrs. Christopher Brandon-formerly Miss Dashwood, of Devonshire. And she has just been learning our new dance, and soaking up the Viennese culture."

Rochester smirked-smirked!-at Brandon, and then kissed Marianne's hand. She smiled, unaware that there was some tension, and asked if he too was fond of dancing. He responded by asking her for another waltz, and she agreed, shooting her husband a quick gesture to demonstrate that she was headed back out to the dance floor.

For about ten seconds he watched them, a sickening sensation in the pit of his stomach. Then he turned to the Admiral and said, "I think I want to get some air. I shall be on the terrace. No, no-" he shook his head, smiling. "I'm fine, you stay here. I'm just a bit warm."

Taking his glass of punch, he retreated to the cold privacy of the outdoors.

Marianne finished out the remainder of the number the band played, dizzy with the effort as well as with all the twists and turns she'd been forced to do. Rochester was a much more dominating partner than Wentworth had been, and his conversation, though serious, which she usually liked, was altogether...too harsh, perhaps? She couldn't put her finger on exactly what it was, but she was a bit relieved to have done with him, and since the band was taking a pause in their playing for a few minutes, she took the opportunity to rejoin her friends. Her husband had gone, she assumed to find refreshment or to speak with someone he'd seen, so she sat in a chair next to Sophy, her new friend. The Admiral had offered himself as a partner at cards across the room, and Sophy sat, smiling, comfortable in her solitude, but no less happy to allow Marianne into her presence.

Sophy began by admonishing her: "It is perhaps best, I should warn you, not to acquiesce to Mr. Rochester again. Though he is rich and very well connected, I'm not certain...my husband, also, is not certain that he is to be fully trusted."

Marianne shuddered. "I think I know what you mean. Thank you. I didn't want to be rude, but…"

"Neither did I, or I would have warned you beforehand."

Marianne relaxed into her chair. "I really am so glad we found you, Sophy. Your friendship has been such a nice thing during this journey."

"Honeymooning is tiring, when you are constantly in company with just one person, is it not?"

"Well-no, not really," Marianne reflected. "I've still got so much to learn about my husband-I feel I will never be really bored. It seems that each time we ought to run out of conversation, we find something...he's got some kind of surprise for me, tomorrow."

"Ah, yes," Sophy smiled. "He's told us all to be very quiet about it."

"You know as well?"

"Yes, and you will soon see why. My husband is helping."

Marianne thrilled that there was some secret plan afoot, and that she was at the center of it. Although it should not have really shocked her, for the next day was her birthday-she would be twenty, an age she viewed as respectable-and it was within the regular scope of her husband's behaviour that he would plan something special.

"These men we have found for ourselves…" Sophy stared off into the distance, and Marianne realized she was glancing at where Admiral Croft quietly played whist at a table far off. "Do you ever feel that we are too lucky for our own good?"

Marianne caught herself scratching her head pensively, and then remembered her manners, clasping her hands in her lap. "Often."

"I never quite know what it is he sees in me, but I hope to God he continues to see it," said Sophy wistfully.

Marianne kept to herself the thought that came to her, that Sophy was singularly beautiful as well as intelligent and poised-and that it wasn't a stretch to see that the Admiral would have fallen in love with her. She smiled, thinking about her own husband, and how she would teach him to waltz later in the privacy of their own room-the way it would move her to feel that it was his arms around her, his legs pushing against hers as he steered her, his hips so very close to her own, arms and legs and hips she new intimately now-perhaps it would be an abbreviated dancing lesson. "I take it my husband has gone with yours, to play at cards?"

"Ah, no. I thought you knew? He went out to the terrace for some air."

Air? Marianne reflected. But it is literally freezing outside. Why… Has something bothered him? Is he angry?

"Perhaps I ought to go check on him?" Marianne began to rise from her chair.

Sophy nodded, and then turned back to the dance floor, where her brother was approaching her. Frederick took Marianne's place next to Sophy, then stood up again and offered her a dance, and the two of them scooted off to waltz. Marianne, briefly and intuitively wondering whether this Captain Wentworth fellow wasn't putting on some sort of brave front to cover up for a lonely heart, let it go as she stepped out through the French doors of the banquet hall.

It wasn't hard to spot him, because there were only a handful of people who stood outside. Three couples huddled privately, taking the opportunity of the freezing evening to gain privacy from prying eyes. And Brandon stood with his back to everyone, empty punch cup dangling from his fingers as he gripped the banister.

Marianne came up behind him. "Christopher?" she said tentatively.

He turned to face her and raised an eyebrow. She saw an opening, and moved in closer to him, covering his hand with her own.

"Are you alright?"

He nodded. "Are you?"

"Did you leave because of me? Because I was dancing?"

He thought about her question. Nodding, he said, "In a sense, I-I suppose I did."

Marianne bristled at this. "It isn't decorous of me to refuse everyone who asks me to dance. You needn't be jealous."

"Oddly enough, I wasn't."

"Oddly enough?"

"I trust you. Truly. Even though you look like the type of woman who would be excellent at breaking hearts. And every man here seems to know it." He smiled a little. She rolled her eyes.

"Is this about Captain Wentworth? You were the one who introduced me to him, after all-"

"No, it's not about him. And again, I trust you."

"Is it about..about Mr. Rochester?"

"More him, yes."

"He was vile." Brandon snorted. "Not on first appearance, of course, but...he was like Willoughby." She realized the truth of this as the words came out of her mouth.

Brandon stilled, then relaxed, putting his arm around his wife. "Yes," he said.

"But you...you trust me?"

"There have been moments when I have wondered...wondered what would happen if you met him again. In truth, the circles we travel in...it is almost certain it will happen at some point. I needed to know how it would be."

"If I met him again? Do you think I would...would lose everything we've built, for him? Surely you know-"

"No." Brandon took a shaky breath. "No, I know you don't love him any longer. it's more a worry about my own behavior. That Rochester...before he knew you were my wife, he...he saw you. And he said something about you. Something...I wanted to fight him. To hurt him."

"And you have a history, haven't you, of avenging the honour of women you care for?"

"Or trying to." Brandon shook his head. "And I don't know how to feel about it. After I dueled Willoughby, I promised myself-and moreover, I promised Eliza-I'd never risk my life or my health again for something like honour. But, Marianne, to a man-and a military man at that-asking me to withhold that need is like asking me to cut off a limb. God, how I longed to strike him."

"You could have, you know. I never asked you to withhold that part of yourself. You could have struck him in the middle of the assembly room, and I'd have still left the premises on your arm, and been proud to. But don't think for a minute you'd be doing it for me. I don't need you to fight another man to prove which of the pair of you is more suited to be my husband. You will always, always be more of a man in my eyes than Mr. Rochester, or Willoughby, or anyone. Unless you think my honour is so fragile that-"

"No, Marianne," he cut her off gently. "As I said-I trust you. Completely."

"Good." She stared at the night sky, clouded over and threatening to snow again. They'd seen so much snow on this journey that Marianne, who loved snow, was beginning ever so slightly to long for spring, though she hadn't completely lost her yen for the romance of the softly falling flakes. The air was clean and clear as she took a breath. "Why?"

"Why what, my dear?"

"Why do you trust me?"

"Should I not?" he teased. "Ought I to be worried about blackguards like Rochester?"

"Of course not."

"I trust you because I know you. I love you. And I know-I feel it, Marianne-I know that you love me. Though God knows why."

She sighed, content. "Good," she said again. Then she twisted and looked at him again. "Then why the big production of coming into the cold when I was dancing with someone else?"

He laughed. "Just because I trust you, doesn't mean I'm happy to watch you dance with someone else, particularly that someone."

"Then you ought to have asked me. Or at the very least, you ought to have asked Sophy Croft, or some other lady, while I was otherwise engaged."

"Ah, but I do not know how to waltz."

"We shall have to remedy that."

"Don't you think it looks a little like...like the whole world would be watching us...in our most private activities? It's so close, so intimate."

"Yes, maybe a little… but it's...it's lovely." She took his left hand and placed it on her waist, then took his right hand and positioned it in her own. "And it's quite easy. It's the easiest dance to learn. You just glide. Here. Step forward."

He took a step. "Now right." She sort of led him with her hip, until he found a box with his feet. "And back, left, together. Is that so bad?"

He smiled, eyes meeting hers, and said, "Nothing could be more delightful."

"Have you had enough of this?" Marianne gestured around to the assembly. "Can we go back to the hotel now? I should like to teach you some more steps, if you want to learn."

Brandon squeezed his wife's hand. Thank God, he reflected, he hadn't become overwrought earlier with Rochester (who ignored all passers-by as he attempted to woo a brunette in a darkened corner, Brandon noticed as he walked towards the exit). Some men were destined to be lucky with so many women, to act as they pleased and to find pleasure and companionship wherever they went-

And some men were even luckier, because they got private dancing lessons from Mrs. Christopher Brandon. Though, admittedly, tonight's lesson was, as Marianne had predicted, shortened. More pressing needs being discovered, Marianne and her husband abandoned the waltz in favour of a much older, more primitive dance, the roar of the fire providing the music, and the dance floor replaced by bed linens, soft and warm.


	14. Opus 18

Chapter 14: "Opus 18," by Ludwig von Beethoven

Note: This is the final chapter! There will be a sequel...eventually. Stay tuned!

For my German-speaking readers… es tut mir leid. My German is ganz schlecht, but I tried :)

"So, why has no one told me where we are going? Is it dangerous?" Marianne chided Sophy Croft the following evening from her perch next to her new friend, just as she was about to climb out of the carriage.

Sophy simply shrugged, amused. "I am not allowed to say."

Brandon reached up, excitement glittering in his eyes despite his typical calm demeanor as he grasped her gloved hand and guided her down onto the street. Paired with the beautiful green gown he had bought for her, she wore the jewelry he had given her as a wedding gift, and the ermine stole he had bought her for her birthday-a fact that had given her some consternation-"You've already done something else for my birthday, too, haven't you; that's why we're going out this evening; you'll have me quite spoiled; I look like a proper lady, now, and I think you've spent far too much money," she'd cried out, but again as before, he kissed her senseless, and she stopped her protests.

They walked into the house to which they'd driven, a fine, large house in one of the richest parts of the city. There were guests gathered in the foyer- _another assembly?_ Marianne wondered-and all of them were dressed to the same level of formality as Marianne, with equal-or even greater-fineness to their garments. She silently thanked her husband again for recognizing the need to look like something more than a pauper when she attended these fine parties with him.

At once, Admiral Croft found the host of the party, a stout man named Treiger with a gregarious disposition not unlike Sir John Middleton's. Introductions were made all around, and Herr Treiger asked, in accented English, "I hope you are all ready for our little concert. Our great star has just arrived. He is really looking forward to seeing you again, Admiral, as he knows your taste is generally fine."

"Ah," replied Croft, "I have in my company a young woman whose taste is also noted to be remarkable."

Marianne blushed to hear herself talked of so. She now gathered that they were to hear a private concert, something she'd longed once to do in London had her affair with Willoughby gone off better, the dream of which she had abandoned when his true intentions to her had been made known. Finding it necessary to say something to her host, she said, "I am not very experienced, indeed, but I do love to play. My husband also-he has a fine ear for music. What sort of music are we to hear tonight? Something I've heard of?"

"Something you've heard of-well, I suppose his fame may not have made its way to England yet, but surely you've heard of Herr Beethoven?"

"Herr Beethoven…" Marianne's heart leapt as she realized the name from the most recent sheet music her husband had given her-indeed, from before they were married, when he had been silently pining for her with each note she'd played-she did know of his music, but only just. "He is here?"

"Yes, and set to conduct a concert for me and a few of my friends," Treiger said, gesturing around at the more-than-a-few friends who had gathered.

Marianne glanced at her husband, whose eyes twinkled. All she could say was, "Oh."

In a flurry of excitement, Marianne felt herself be guided on Brandon's arm. She squeezed it, and felt him flex his muscle to squeeze her hand back. "How on earth did you manage this?" she whispered when they were seated in the parlor in front of the musicians who began to tune up, so close they could see the stitches in their coats and almost reach out to pluck the strings on their instruments.

"All I did was mention to Admiral and Mrs. Croft that you were so fond of music, and they arranged it all. I really had no hand in it. I had planned to buy you some sheet music as a birthday gift, which I will still do, by the way, as a memento of our travels. But I felt, given the circumstances…"

He trailed off. Something had changed in her face. She looked at him as if she were seeing him for the first time. And he flattered himself that she liked what she saw.

"I am going to thoroughly enjoy myself this evening."

He smiled, and replied, "I had hoped as much-"

"I wasn't finished. I'm going to thoroughly enjoy myself this evening, and it will be lovely, and I will shake hands and make friends with all of these people, and wrap myself up in the music that we hear. But do not think that one moment will pass where I will not be planning for what happens when we arrive back at our quarters tonight."

Her eyes blazed with desire then, but only for a moment, and then she replaced that look with one of proper decorum as she turned to face the musicians.

"I shall be at your service, then, as ever," he whispered in response, his breath displacing the curls at the nape of her neck. It was from this, as much as from the famed composer's entrance, that she felt a shiver running through her entire being.

Herr Beethoven was...unassuming at first. His face, though not unattractive, was not alarmingly devastating either, and she thought she never would have pegged him as a brilliant musical mind. When he had made his way to the middle of the room to take his place before the string quartet that was to play his latest opus, however, Marianne saw a flash of something in his eyes that belied some great passion or talent. Indeed, the rest of the room was ahead of her-a standing ovation from some of the guests was given the minute he emerged from an adjoining chamber. He looked around, meeting her eyes briefly, and those of most of the closest spectators-as if he was searching for something-and then gave a tiny, almost arrogant smile, seeming to ground himself, before bowing a little and then turning to his players. Without any further ado, he raised his arms and began to conduct.

Dear God, it was good to listen to this. It was almost like making love. Almost.

At one point, Marianne came to and realized that her pulse was pounding to the rhythm. Musically, it was the most exciting thing she'd ever heard.

She glanced at her husband, whose fingers and feet were thrumming along to the rhythm too, a dazed, raised-eyebrow expression on his face, his mouth a little upturned. She knew that he was surprised by how much he found himself enjoying this, because old-fashioned as he was, this new-fangled sort of tune was out of his typical range of interest. But here he was, anyway. He had brought her to hear something truly great, even though himself didn't think he'd be inclined to enjoy it. And he had done so gleefully, knowing it would make her happy.

She returned her attention to the music, more warm and content than she'd ever been in her life.

The minute the last quartet was finished, the whole room burst into thunderous applause, and Marianne and Christopher stood along with everyone else to add their heartfelt praise. Marianne thought they'd leave soon after, but Treiger, their host, announced to the room, first in German and then again in English and French, "Friends, I hope you'll stay for a little reception, now you've heard Vienna's most prestigious rising star, and meet these lovely young musicians who've given us an evening of their time."

Brandon turned to Marianne and the Crofts, just as Admiral Croft was asking, "Well, how about it? Should you like to stay and meet the man?"

Sophy, who had been sitting on Marianne's opposite side and who had only showed a passing interest-Marianne suspected that she had very little taste in music, but did not hold it against her-yawned, and asked that maybe she and her husband could say hello to 'Dear Ludwig' and then turn in for the evening, for she was quite fagged. Admiral Croft thought this a fitting idea, and suggested that he could send the carriage back around for Marianne and Christopher when they'd arrived at the hotel. Though the newlyweds protested that they didn't want to cause any trouble, the Crofts insisted, and so it was. The Brandons were entrusted to the care of Treiger, who wasted no time in showing them around, introducing them to all the fashionable (and a little avant garde) guests. Marianne gave a silent prayer of thanks for the French and German lessons she'd undertaken recently, for she was using them more than she would have thought possible, switching back and forth from one to the other. Brandon didn't seem to be having any trouble, but made an effort to include her in each conversation as he met someone new, speaking clearly and using vocabulary he knew she had heard, even if she had to wrack her brain to translate his phrasing into her native tongue. All in all, each conversation focused on music, something she understood deeply and loved even more, and she found that she was having a more thrilling time here among these people, with this man by her side, than she'd ever have imagined. Just think what she would have said, had someone told her two years ago that she'd be here with him! How she had underestimated him!

And at last, in a fresh set of clothes (for she had been close enough to see the perspiration dripping from Herr Beethoven as he'd conducted, every fibre of his being engaged in the act of creating magic), the composer himself reentered the room to a fresh set of applause. Treiger brought him around and made introductions, and soon Marianne found herself standing in front of him. And just as she'd hoped he would, he shook her hand, dispensing with the notion that ladies couldn't do so as well as men in the physically-demanding task of greeting one another. "Wie geht es Ihnen?" she heard herself murmur.

"Speak up, or he'll never hear you," Treiger intimated. "He's deaf as an albino cat."

"Not so deaf yet," Beethoven answered in English and half-smiled ironically, and Marianne giggled girlishly. _Dear God, I am married_ , she remembered. The man to whom she was married thrust his own hand into Beethoven's, and began peppering him with questions, which the composer answered graciously, and then fired back with questions of his own. Marianne relaxed to hear her husband's German speed up beyond the point where she could understand it, though he did speak loudly enough that his co-conversant could hear him. He was star-struck, too, and not thinking of her, any more than she had been thinking of him thirty seconds before.

Soon the two men began gesturing, and as she stared up at them, she realized they were gesturing to her. Christopher was smiling fiercely and possessively, indicating his wife, and before she could put her translating powers to use in trying to decipher their meaning, Herr Beethoven turned to her and half-shouted:

"Moechten sie fuer uns das Klavier spielen, Frau Brandon?"

"I beg your pardon-what was that?" She furrowed her brows at the composer and her husband. "Ich kann… nur ein bisschen Deutsch, entschuldigung."

Beethoven cleared his throat and smiled at her, choosing his words carefully. "I asked if you would like to play the klav-eh, the pianoforte-for us. Your husband suggested that you have some talent."

Mortified, heart pounding in her chest, Marianne looked at Brandon, then at the composer. "I? No, he-he thinks-" she fished for a response. "He speaks far too highly of my skills, I am afraid."

"Nonsense, Madame. Come-Treiger! Treiger!" He shouted for the host, whom he soon found, and asked, "Hast du einen Klavier, das Frau Brandon spielen darf?"

"Ja! Ja! Come, come!"

And Treiger led them into a smaller chamber where several people were gathered, Beethoven following him, then Marianne, and Brandon bringing up the rear. Marianne looked back at Brandon, terror filling her features. "I didn't put him up to this. I simply suggested that you enjoyed playing."

"Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh dear," was all Marianne could answer, the supper she'd consumed earlier threatening to work its way back up and out.

"Here, you have a seat. What do you like to play?" Beethoven asked encouragingly.

"M-Mozart," she answered, teeth chattering.

He rolled his eyes and smirked. "Alright, let us hear."

Marianne took a breath, looking up at her husband for comfort. She placed her hands on the keys, and at once all the eyes in the room turned to her, voices hushed. Her first chord came tentatively, and all at once Beethoven shook his head, waving his arms.

"No, no. Bold. You must play as bold as you can. I cannot hear you otherwise." He laid his palms flat against the instrument as if to pick up all the vibrations, and nodded his head toward her to begin playing again.

The song she'd chosen was a favourite, and it poured out of her thoughtlessly. She heaved with the effort of playing, putting more passion and energy in than she had ever done before, and felt the gaze of her husband on her as it ever was. She played as if her heartstrings were the very strings inside the instrument, and cessation would mean the stopping of her very own life's blood from pumping. Here she was surrounded by people who really, really loved music, and understood it, and gave her their full attention. And she did not disappoint them. She knew as she sat there that it was the best she'd ever played, better even than when she played alone for her husband, because then often it was a secondary thing, more about their love for one another than purely for the sake of the music itself. But now… Now she felt invincible.

Treiger led the applause when she'd finished. Beethoven himself clapped, and then nodded thoughtfully. She stood up to go, but he held out his hand. Then he reached inside his waistcoat and pulled out some paper, unfolding it. "Can you try this? It's something I've been working on and I want to hear if it makes sense."

Happy to oblige, she took the composition from him, some of the ink smudgy as if it had been written in a hurry to get thoughts onto paper. She began to play it, haltingly as it was new and unfamiliar, but soon found her rhythm. He nodded along with her, glancing up each time she got to a difficult part, and then waving her along to keep playing if she stumbled.

"I know that wasn't perfect-" she began when she'd finished.

"No, it wasn't. But who is?" he asked, sitting next to her and forcing her to scoot over. "This part here, it was...confusing? What do you think-here-where is that husband of yours? What do the two of you think about this part? Would it sound better if-"

And for some time, the three of them bent over the new composition, Beethoven seemingly losing interest in most of the other guests but simply focused on the task at hand.

Abruptly, he stood, stepped away from the instrument, and said, "That's enough for tonight. I must return home. Your playing has not displeased me, Frau Brandon. You could benefit from real lessons. Hast sie einen Lehrer?" He turned to look at her husband.

"Oh...nein. Nein. Es ist… nur eine Kurzweil." Marianne recognized the words 'teacher' and 'only a pastime.' The two men seemed to share a silent moment in which Beethoven's understanding dawned on him. Women don't seriously study music. Of course they don't. Still.

Beethoven huffed. "Das ist aber schade, dass sie eine Frau ist." He hastily bowed, and turned on his heel to depart.

"Vielleicht," Brandon breathed in his wake. "It probably is." He smiled down at her where she still sat, exhausted, perspiration pooling at her temples and collarbone. "Are you ready to return home?"

She shakily stood and allowed him to lead her out, giving their thanks to Treiger as they exited. "What did he say at the last?"

"From what I've gathered about that man's reputation for being a harsh critic, he probably gave you a better compliment than he's used to giving to anyone. He said basically that it would be better if you had been a man, so you could have become a serious student of music."

She thought for a bit as she made her way into the carriage and allowed him room next to her. "I don't think I could handle the responsibility of being a man. To carry the weight of all that superior intelligence, and not to be buoyed by all of these flighty feminine emotions… Why, whatever would I do with myself?"

He snorted, burying his nose into the space behind her ear and nuzzling her warm, softly-scented neck. "It is...very tiresome," he replied.

"Very much so?"

"Oh, yes."

"Is there anything I can do to...ease the burden of...manhood?" she asked, slowly sliding her hand from his knee up his thigh.

"I am certain you can think of something," he breathed, setting his teeth against her earlobe and tugging, sighing as her hand found its target. "Easy, love. I've been watching you play all evening. You know what that does to me."

"Yes, but I like to confirm my suspicions."

"Oh, dear God," he laughed, prying her hand away and taking it in his own. "In all seriousness, however… Marianne...you really do have a gift. Would you like me to engage a teacher for you? It would be an honour to give you an opportunity to grow as an artist, if you'd like."

"Really?"

He met her eyes. "Of course."

She took a minute to think about it. "Perhaps one day. But I think not yet. I shall be very busy soon, shan't I?"

"Busy?"

"Yes, when we return to Delaford in a fortnight. I'll have to learn my duties as mistress of the house-"

"Yes, well, that shouldn't take very long; Delaford has been mistress-less for ages, and has gotten on just fine."

She eyed him pertly. "Well, I intend to make myself useful, whether or not _you_ think I am needed."

He snorted. "Of course you are needed. I only meant that the servants will be very adept at guiding you in which decisions to make, and how to do things."

"Well, and then there's Elinor and Edward, and the baby, and I'm sure there will be more of those. And Charity and Eliza, whom I have every intention of visiting regularly. And there will be our own child soon, of course."

Brandon jumped in his seat, bumping his head against the roof of the carriage. "What? Marianne, are-is there reason to believe-"

Marianne perceived his agitation with confusion for a moment, then laughed. "No, no. Not-that is, there is no reason to believe that any...any changes have occurred on that front, not yet."

Brandon slumped into his seat. "Ah."

"Are you relieved or disappointed?" Marianne asked hesitantly.

"Neither, really-only, I was shocked-you must admit, the way you phrased that last-it was unclear."

"Well, we will have a child soon, the way things are going, won't we? You, sir, are insatiable."

"You, madam, are one to talk."

"And will you react with such gusto when I do tell you that I am with child?"

"Marianne, I-if and when that day should occur, if you are happy, then I will be the happiest of men."

They pulled up just then to the facade of their hotel, and Brandon scrambled to get out and hand his wife down, careful to avoid a patch of ice. Bundled up in her ermine, the glittering green jewels shining in the light of the street lamps, the dazzle of the music still present in the glow of her eyes and cheeks, Brandon thought she had never looked more graceful, more mature, more lovely.

"Well, you are now twenty. And how do you like it?"

"So far it appears to have its benefits." He reached down to help her with her skirts as they ascended the stairs. It became real to the two of them that they were alone on the staircase, their chamber, private, warm, and inviting, just steps away.

"Colonel Brandon," she began shyly as they reached the final landing, "Will you still think I'm beautiful when I'm seven-and-twenty?"

Puzzled, he asked, "Do you have a reason to doubt that I would? After all, I am seven-and-thirty, and you don't utterly detest me, or so I have come to believe."

"I've just never really thought about getting older before. How-how my body will change."

"As long as your heart is still mine, you will always be the most beautiful creature I've ever beheld." He unlocked the door. "Was that trite?"

"Not if it was honest."

"Perfectly honest, Miss Marianne." They stepped through the door, and Brandon closed it behind them. A fire had been laid out, and the warm glow beckoned them. They simply stood face to face just inside the door.

 _Slowly, now_ , Brandon told himself. With great patience, he lowered his head incrementally toward hers and found her lips, then began to work his way beyond the barriers of her sanity, his fingertips brushing against hipbones, the undersides of her breasts, the crevice at the base of her spine just above her backside, the soft fabric of her gown and chemise gliding against her soft skin and causing her to moan against his mouth. She grabbed at the back of his greatcoat, pulling him close to her, just before he broke away. "You said you were concocting some...plans for this evening?"

Marianne blinked her eyes thickly and quirked an eyebrow.

"And I told you that I was at your service. So, Mrs. Brandon," he touched his forehead and nose to hers, "how may I be of assistance?"

She smiled broadly then, for nothing pleased her more than when he was playful like this. Biting her lip, she asked, "Would it be too much trouble to ask you to help me with my gown?"

"That seems like a good start, doesn't it?" He collected her wrap, hanging it and his own greatcoat up and then returning to her. His fingers had now become quite adept at removing the gowns she selected, as well as her stays, and he made easy work of it, but he took his time, taking each opportunity to place his lips upon her skin as it was newly exposed. For good measure, he worked the hem of her chemise painfully slowly up her body as he removed it chemise, then scooped her up in his arms-he always enjoyed the little yelps and giggles of protest she gave him when he did this-and sat her down in the large armchair in front of the fireplace so he could kneel in front of her and remove her boots and stockings.

"How convenient," Marianne noted.

"Oh?" her husband asked, as he caressed her thighs.

"You're already perfectly situated for the second part of my plan."

"Am I, now?"

"Hmm," she murmured in assent, as he replaced his hands with his mouth, inching close to her sex and then finding her sweet warmth with his tongue. Her fingernails stroked his head and scratched at his shoulders as he brought her closer and closer, and the sensations were oddly stimulating to him. She tugged his hair as she came, and he dug his fingers into her thighs in response-the tiny little ache of this prolonging her pleasure and ensuring that she was left completely breathless and spent.

A minute later she slid down to the soft rug where he sat at her feet. She wrapped her arms around him-he was still fully clothed, she realized, except for his coat-and investigated his state of arousal. Quite satisfying. Smiling to herself, she began simultaneously to unlace his trousers and to kiss him, his startled breath stopped by the pressure of her lips. Soon the torment was too much, and he batted her hand away and completed her task himself, all patience forgotten. She lay down then, stretching out down the length of the rug, her naked body warmed by the fire, and he brought himself between her legs and inside her, closing his eyes with pleasure-each time, it was like finding a missing part of his own heart, just taking her in this way. She whispered to him- "Yes, oh-so good-" and scratched at his back again, finding her way up under his shirt to touch bare skin. "I love you," she whispered as he began to speed up-and soon he was lost to all reason, incapable of doing anything more than moving and breathing.

When it was over, and he lay beside her, she scratched lightly up and down his torso, watching the shadows her hand made in the firelight. He rumbled a sigh of satisfaction, kissing her forehead. "We should transfer ourselves to the bed before I fall asleep like this," he said.

"Just a little while longer. I don't feel up to moving just yet."

"As you like." He gathered her a little closer to him. "Happy birthday."

"Happy honeymoon."

"Has it been all so very awful, these past few weeks of marriage to an old man like me?"

"Not very. Some moments have been even bearable." Her eyes twinkled.

"Even when I became agitated and irritable and generally depressing? Like at my sister's?"

"It's always nice to be reminded that you have flaws, my love, for your good qualities are typically so overwhelming that they put me to shame, in my youth and recklessness and…"

"Hush." He pressed a finger over her lips.

"Christopher?"

"Hmm?"

"Tonight was...the most...well, magical seems a silly word to use, but may it not be appropriate from time to time? Not just because of the opportunity to meet Herr Beethoven and hear his music-although that was something I shall never forget-but because of your thoughtfulness."

He felt a lump form in his throat. "Surely you know-I only want to make you happy. It's what I long for above all other things."

"And if you continue to strive for that, and I work as hard as I plan to do to make you happy as well, then...then I think our marriage is destined to be a successful one."

Brandon raised himself up on an elbow. "It won't always be joy, Marianne. There will be hard times."

"But they will not be indicative of any cracks in our commitment to one another."

"I would hope not."

"No-we'll weather the storms, won't we?"

He smiled at her and wrapped one of her loose curls around his finger. "I feel that with you by my side, I can suffer anything."

She got up suddenly.

"Where are you going?"

"I was reminded of a poem." She fished around on the stand near the bed, through their books and papers, and found the volume she'd been rereading. There, easily opening to the page she'd wanted, she read: "How blest I am in this discovering thee! To enter in these bonds is to be free."

He got up, wrapped his arms around her from behind, and completed the verse: "That where my hand is set, my seal shall be." And he began to tickle her stomach, so that she fell onto the bed into a fit of giggles, and thus they carried on into the night, paying no heed to the ticking of the clock or the emerging light of the sun peeking through the window.

The End! (Or the beginning…)


End file.
